

Class 
Book 



Copyright )J^. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES 



BY 



FRANK A. McGUIRE 



/^=^^ 



>^ 



JACKSON, MISSOURI 

1915 






i^^^V 



Copyright, 1916, by 
Frank A. McGuire 



JAN i5|9lo 



©Ji.A418060 



MOST of the verses in this book were printed in 
the year 1913 in a souvenir edition of fifty 
copies which I handed to some of my old 
school-mates and a few personal friends. Several 
parties have suggested that I issue another and 
larger edition in order to give the verses wider pub- 
licity. This I have concluded to do. The greater 
part of the collection were written in early youth 
and during the years immediately following the close 
of my school days. The reader, perhaps, will be able 
to identify these. Nothing was written with the ex- 
pectation of its ever oppearing within the pages of 
a book. The only motive I had in writing the verses 
was the pleasure I found in the effort. I do not flat- 
ter myself with the belief that anyone will derive 
much of either pleasure or profit from reading the 
book. 

F. A. M. 
Jackson, Mo., September, 1915. 



TO THE MEMORY 

OF MY BROTHER, ALBERT GaYLE McGuIRE, 
DECEASED, WHOSE CHRISTIAN LIFE ITSELF 
WAS A BEAUTIFUL POEM, THIS BOOK IS DEDI- 
CATED. 

F. A. M. 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



A GRAVE. 



The warmth of the vernal sun, 
The wind from the south and the fresh'ning showers, 
As ever since the birth of the v/orld they have done, 

Have wakened again the flowers. 



Oh, would they could wake again 
One who sleeps where the shadows of the forest 

spread. 
It would free my poor heart of its grief and its pain 

Could they bring me back my dead. 



Where, oh flowers fair, 
Are the hopes that were once such a comfort to me ? 
They are gone, they have perished, are buried where 

I planted a wild rose tree. 



0, wind from the southland, come, 
And go for a day and sigh with me 
By yonder grave where the flowers bloom 

And fade on the wild rose tree. 



(1) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



THE BIRTH OF CHRIST. 



A universal hope o'erspread 
The waiting world, and overhead 
The conscious stars looked on 
The lowly place in Palestine 
Where Mary, favored virgin queen, 
Nourished her god-like son. 



From star-lit Syrian skies above. 
From the presence of the God of Love, 

Burst upon the ears of men 
The melody of Heaven. Ne'er 
Before nor since did mortal ear 

Heavenly music ken. 

Lo! the shining v/orlds above 
In wondrous convocation move, 

And send their brightest gem 
To honor Him and lead the way 
Of groping men to th' place where lay 

Their Lord in Bethlehem. 



Far down the vista of the years, 
Forelooking, Israel's appointed seers 

(2) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



See the converging nations meet, 
Singing hosannas to the blest, 
Aweary, worn and seeking rest, 

Low at their Savior's feet. 



The mountains know their Heaven- 
born King; 
The forests with His praises ring; 

All things with one accord — 
The earth, the air, the sea — make 

known 
Their faith in Him, and man alone 
Denies his promised Lord. 

Heathen temples their gods forswear; 
The groves rebuke the altars there; 

Error hides its hideous mien; 
The darkening clouds at last are rent; 
Truth glows with light from Heaven 
sent, 

Brighter than the morning's sheen. 



The demons of the darkness vast. 
That had plagued the earth for ages 
past, 
Were startled when the light 
Broke from the bending firmament, 



(3) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And the brighter day that God had 
sent 
Triumphed over nigh^. 



THE BROKEN HEART. 

Toll the bell solemnly, 

For a woman is dead — 
Speak of her gently, 

And bow low the head. 

In weakness she lived, 

Yet blameless she died; 
She suffered and sorrowed — 

In the furnace was tried. 

In the fair days of youth, 

In her beauty and pride, 
She cherished a hope 

That was forever denied; 

Yet she lived on and worshipped 

The idol she cherished, 
Till the burden of sorrow 

Broke her heart, and she perished, 



(4) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Like a flower that blooms 
In the crystaline dawn 

Of a morning in spring 
Till its beauty is gone. 

In her weakness she perished 
As a moth in the flame, 

While they spoke of her cruelly 
As a woman of shame. 



yet the fairest of all 

Of the angels, one day. 

Was sent down from Heaven 
To bear hgr away. 

For the good God above 

Knew the wheat from the tare, 
And garnered the choicest 

Sheaf that was there. 



And she died in the month 
When dark Winter's breath 

Is as cold as the pride 
That did her to death. 



Ah! there's one who will wait 
Till the flowers rebloom 

(5) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



And gather the choicest 
To lay on her tomb, 



And tell to the dead 

Who is now resting well 
The love to the living 

He dared not tell. 



A SUMMER TWILIGHT. 



The sun was down, yet tried its best 
To blaze and burn up, limb by limb. 

The trees out in the circling west 
That fringed the wide horizon's rim. 

The crescent moon had come again, 

An acorn in a golden cap, 
And Night, approaching, dusky swain, 

Laid his head on Evening's lap. 



The south-wind kissed the downy cheek 
Of precious beauty at my side; 

The frog-song floated from the creek 
Across the gloomy meadow wide. 



(6) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



The lightning-bug lit now and then 
Its wondrous lamp out on the hill; 

Was heard from out the tangled fen 
The droll note of the whip-poor-will. 



Beyond the field, in the distant wood, 
The hoot-owl answered to its mate; 

And in the air the beetle brood 
Bejgan to boom and circulate. 



Away off in the distance dim 

I heard the hound-dog's deep-mouth- 
ed bay; 

The cock upon the apple limb 
Crew good-bye to retiring day. 



A gang of blackbirds hurried by, 
Belated, to their roosting place; 

I saw the slow-winged heron fly 
Across the evening's dusky face. 



The leathern bat its home forsook. 
And, darting here and there, it flew; 

Dark-hidden in its leafy nook. 
The cat-bird sang a bar or two. 



(7) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



In the tree above the zephyr sighed, 
A few big stars in heaven shone, 

And, somewhat like a hope that died, 
The day went out and night came on. 



SANTA CLAUS. 

The last we heard of Santa Claus 
He was skipping o'er the snow, 

Away up in Alaska land 
Where dwell the Eskimo. 

He was driving southward at a gait 
Fast as the eagle's flight. — 

Hang up your stockings, little folks, 
He'll be down here to-night. 

But never mind, you children who 

Live where the scanty cup 
Of poverty is set, you need 

Not hang your stockings up. 

Old Santa Claus is like the world, 

He passes poor folks by, 
He cracks his whip v/hen he sees their 
homes, 

And makes his chariot fly. 

(8) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



NO DISTANT DAY. 

They tell me that my lot, no distant day, 

Will be to pass away 
On spirit wings to some strange world on high, 
Beyond the glittering stars that stud the sky. 

Well, I don't know; but seems to me that I, 

Somehow, would rather fly 
With wings the birds fly with, the birds that sing 
And make life's winter seem so much like spring. 

They tell me that my body will be gone, 

And that I will take on 
A form that can't be seen, intangible — 
My cup of joy will then be brimming full. 



(Somehow I dread conditions so ideal. 
Divorcement from the things I know are real.) 



It may be just because I'm weak and human, 

Yes, weaker than a woman. 
That I sometimes think the Good Place would be 

queer 
Without the forms and faces we see here. 

(9) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



(Oh, may I there behold and recognize 
Some traces of old Earth in Paradise!) 



Say, you who know, you wise men up in lore. 

When I reach that peaceful shore, 
There will I see the silvery rivulet, 
Lined with green trees and verdure thickly set? 

The song-bird will I see, the forest wild, 

The sunset-temples piled 
Gold on gold, the morning sparkling bright. 
The rich array of stars above at night? 



From out the east will shadows slowly creep. 

Wooing to restful sleep. 
When the day is done? Will the gentle South-Wind 

come 
And kiss the cheek of blushing May in bloom ? 



Will yellow fields in autumn greet me there 

In that better land so fair ? 
There will I note the wild duck^s distant flight 
Across the dusky heavens at fall of night? 

And see the birds of passage circling high 
Up in the deep blue sky, 

(10) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



As when a happy child I used to love 

To lie prostrate and watch their armies move? 



Will pattering feet arrest the listening ear 

Of mother-love, and cheer 
Home-coming father's heart when they run to meet 
Him noon and evening, precious little feet? 

And oh! above all else, tell me, you wise, 

If in that paradise 
She whom I love, my heart of hearts, will be. 
As she is here. Heaven's choicest gift to me? 



THE HOLY SPIRIT. 



From worldly things my thoughts withdrew, 

And I lapsed into a reverie, 
Till soothing slumber came and threw 

Its opiate influence over me. 



And as I drowsed and dreamed that night. 
And visions round about me whirled, 

(11) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



A form there was that came bedight 
In the glory of a better world. 



It stood with pearly hand aloft, 

And pointed where its home must be, 

And said in loving accents soft: 

"He calleth thee. He calleth thee." 

"Who is it calls?" my soul replied; 

And again the voice spoke unto me: 
"The Savior who for sinners died, 

The stainless one of Calvary." 

With calm indifference still I sate, 
The gentle pleader heeding not, 

All thoughtless of the bitter fate 
In store for me when Fm forgot. 

Still, like a bird, whose joyful song 

Is changed to grief by some rude fate. 

About the hedge-row lingers long 

Where last it saw its stricken mate. 

There by my soul the spirit stood, 
Till in despair it bowed its head 

And turned away, in pensive mood, 

And from my presence quickly sped. 

(12) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



STANZAS 

Written on frightening two ycnng doves from l&eir nest. 
(in the Brogue of the Scotch.) 

Why frae your nest sae warm, 
Wee birdies, flutter you away? 
Hither ths^t I might do you harm 

I didna stray. 

I wot fu' weel how beat 
Wi' fear your hairts, as near your 

bower 
Th' intrusive wanderer pressed his feet 

This luckless hour. 

Frae yonder stibble borne, 
Your mither's cooing says: "Rest, rest, 
My bonnie bairns, I will return 

Soon to your nest." 

Puir creature! if she kenned 
That sic mischance her bairns befell, 
The wae that wad her bosom rend 

Oh, wha could tell? 

She'll hameward fly anon 
Wi' food to stech the helpless pair, 

(13) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



An' when she sees that they are gone, 
She'll greet fu' sair. 

Waefu' will be her cry, 
As aboon the empty nest she'll perch; 
Frae tree to tree how she will fly 

In anxious search! 

If ruder chance should fa*. 
An* vain her search frae tree to tree, 
If never mair they her ca'. 

An* perished be, 

Then, poised on some near 
bough, 
She'll crood, but to her sweets na mair; 
Joy prompts her song na langcr now, 

But mirk despair. 

Oh, may na savage thing 
Come roond, nor tentless, wicked boy, 
To spy these birds o' timid wing. 

An' them destroy. 

Thus, when we dinna heed, 
Oor actions afttimes wander wrang, 
An' gie, by reekless word or deed. 

Some hairt a pang. 

(14) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



LINES TO A TOAD. 

Why, toady, should I pass you by. 
And never say a word? 

You can not sing, you can not fly- 
You're not a pretty bird. 



In your rough skin that others loathe 
I something pleasing see; 

Unlike proud man's, it does not clothe 
Deceit and treachery. 



That sparkle in my toady^s eye 
Comes not at passion's call, 

But glances from the Love on high 
That shines alike for all. 



Snug in your shady burrow there 
Beneath the "jimson-weed," 

Unvexed by human toil and care, 
Uncircumscribed by creed, 



I envy you your liberty, 

Content and peace of mind, 

(15) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Free from the ills that e'er must be 
The lot of human kind. 

When Night camps where retreating 
Day 

With shining banners sto^d, 
Vou'll sally forth on your foray 

Against the insect brood; 

But I, alas! with tired brain, 
By care and toil oppressed, 

Upon my bed will seek in vain 
A night of perfect rest. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE 
CHILD. 

The little bark had just begun 
To sail a sea storm-tossed, 

And, likely, further had it run. 
The venturer were lost. 

Kind Providence took careful note 
What might, perhaps, have been 

The fate of that frail little boat. 
And quickly drew it in. 

(16) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



TO A MOCKING-BIRD. 



Bird of the varying note, 
That from yon spreading elm-tree's topmost spray 
Now sends o'er trees and fields your song afloat 

To greet the new-born day, 



Without your gifted tongue 
To lead the choir of nature's feathered host, 
Full half the music of the wondrous song 

To my rapt ear were lost. 



This day of life and bloom, 
And beauteous light, methinks, would weary be 
Did not those mimic tones of gladness come 

To soothe and comfort me. 



Oft your society, 

Sw^eet chorister, I seek, when ill at ease. 
And cares disturb, to hear your melody 
Borne on the trembling breeze. 

Not only when the sun 
Begins to gild the trees and hills remote, 

(17) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

pr in the full-grown day, or twilight dun, 
Your cheering songs I note, 



But often in the night, 
When sleep I vainly woo, upon my ear 
Your changing carols fall as clear and bright 

As now your song I hear. 



When life was in its spring, 
My heart like yours, sweet bird, was light and gay; 
'As glad o'er those old hills my voice did ring 

As does your own to-day. 



If years could backward go. 
And bring again but half my youthful joy, 
Since the dawn of reason is the birth of woe, 

I'd wish to be a boy. 

Sing on, dear mocking-bird, 
And let your notes be sounded far and free. 
For that sweet song so oft, enrapt, I've heard 

You'll sing no more for me. 

No more ? Ah ! should I be 
In far-off lands — where oft in dreams I've been- 
Still would I see you poised on this old tree. 

And hear your songs again. 

(18) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



If by the banks of Ayr, 
Where nature's only poet poured his soul, 
Or 'neath Italia's classic sky, or where 

The castled Rhine doth roll, 



By fortune's wave I'm borne, 
E'en there, down memory's vista will be heard. 
At noon, or twilight dim, or rising morn, 

Your song, sweet mocking-bird. 



SONNET. 

Hail, infant day! The old year's life has ceased, 

And Night now draws her sable drapery 
From off thy golden cradle in the east. 

And millions watch the year's first-born to see. 

And, lo, the various train that coma with thee! 
First, Hope, enchantress, smiling at thy side, 
Arrayed in beauty like a blushing bride. 

Her pearly finger points to joys to be. 
Next, Disappointment, hapless soul, doth bide 
A little way behind. And then appears 
Bemoaning Sorrow with her sighs and tears; 

And Pity, one whose tear-drops flow so free, 
Comes with a wreath of virgin flowers now 
To braid in beauty ill-starred Sorrow's brow. 

(19) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



A CHILDHOOD IDYL. 



I wonder, dear Rowena, where 

Your lot is cast to-day; 
Ah! little have I known of you 

Since the time you went away. 



I wonder if the sunlight shines 
With just as bright a glow 

About your feet as it always did 
In the dear old long-ago. 



Say, do the zephyrs still delight 
To fan two cheeks as fair 

As those a sun-browned urchin loved 
To kiss the blushes there? 



I wonder if care sits as light 

Upon your heart to-day 
As when two pairs of bare feet chased 

The laughing hours away. 

I wonder if your eyes flash now 
In splendid beauty still, 

(20) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



As when a bold and headstrong boy 
They used to tame at will. 

Ah, mind you of the day, my girl, 

I found the violets blue, 
And bound them with a pawpaw string 

And brought them home to you? 

And how, when wandering by our- 
selves. 

We used to stop and look 
For pebbles red and purple in 

The "riffles" of the brook? 



To-night, Rowena, as I go 

O'er the wreck-strewn field of time 
And gather up the memories 

And string them into rhyme, 

I see you in your short-cut dress, 

Bare feet brown as a bee. 
Your bonnet red, from under which 

Two bright eyes peeped at me; 

And I wonder, sweetheart of those 
days, 

If your memory, in its flight 
To childhood times, recalls the boy 

Who rhymes of you to-night. 

(21) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



SOUTER JOHNY'S DEATH. 

(In the Brogue of the Scotch.) 

Come, doggies, a', baith auld an' nim- 
ble, 
Wha hunt the paitrick in the bramble, 

Or cotton-tail, 
An* ilka puppy quit his gambol, 

To weep an' wail. 

Let ilka tail now drag the ground, 
An' ilka doggie stand around 

Where Johny's dead, 
An' howl, an' howl wi' mournfu' sound 

Aboon his head. 

All ye wha like the fields to scour, 
Wi' gun an' dog for mony an hour 

In chill October, 
When frost hae nipt the weed and flow'r, 

Come an' look sober, 

For John, the prince o' every setter, 
Lies stiff an' cauld down in the gutter, 
To hunt na mair; 



(22) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Than him na kennel kept a better, 
Onywhere. 

Ah! Tarn, your brither, Souter John, 
Maybe you think's a-hunting gone 

Just for to-day; 
But, Tarn, the trail puir Johny's on 

Leads far away. 

Vile wretch wha dealt the poison! 

Surely 
He canna go to hell too early; 

For him sae mean, 
Auld Hornie's fires are bleezing fairly, 

An' pretty keen. 

Ye fates wha fill the hazy breezes 
Wi' foul contagion an' diseases 

To pester man, 
An* ilka ache an* cramp that squeezes, 

Do a' ye can, 

To mix your ills in hellish jumble, 
An' mak' a curse an' let it tumble 

Upon his pate. 
Lord, hear this prayer, sincere an* 
humble. 

An' grant it straight. 

(23) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



ONE WHO DID NOT COME. 

On tbe occasion of the Home -Comers' Re-Union, 
Jackson, August, 19C9. 

The sun had cet, the day had furled 
Its banners o'er the town, 

And in the windows of the west, 
Night drew the curtains down. 



The moon shone with the same soft 
light 

My boyish fancy loved 
Upon the same old "School House Hill" 

Where our frolic armies moved. 



I stood upon that old play-ground 

Of many years ago, 
While shadowy forms through memo- 
ry's hall 

Came trooping to and fro. 



I saw a barefoot boy and girl, 

Just as they used to be, 
Her dress cut to her ankles brown, 

His pants rolled to his knee. 

(24) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



The urchin's hair was almost white, 
Her's like the black-bird's wing, 

And bright the sparkle of her eye 
As v/ater from a spring. 



Health bloomed upon their childish 
cheeks, 

And from their presence fled 
All care as in the morning light 

The dew the night has shed. 



I saw the youngster sally forth, 

Just as he used to go, 
Some play-thing in his hand, a sling. 

Or arrows and his bow. 



Somehow his way led near a cot 

That stood upon a hill — 
The game was better 'long that route 

On which to try his skill. 



I saw a stately girlish form 

Out in the lot somewhen 
One hand she waved at him, the other 

Tossed her wealth of hair. 



(25) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



I seemed to feel as he felt then, 
There in the twilight dim — 

His heart away up in his throat, 
And almost choking him. 

My thoughts went back, I saw again 
The field beyond the barn. 

Two older brothers at their work, 
And barefoot thinning corn. 



His task was out there in the field, 
His thoughts had gone astray, 

Had wandered, maybe, with his heart 
Somewhere else away. 

I saw him stop and, standing, call 
To his brothers at their plows, 

And ask them if it wasn't time 
To go and bring the cows. 

Along the road, down by the creek, 

I saw him linger till 
He heard her singing, saw her coming 

Tripping down the hill. 

I don't know why it was, but, then, 
They'd always find their cows, 

(26) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Or thought they would, at any rate, 
Where the other's chanced to browse. 

Far, far the cattle must have roamed 
In the woods below the town. 

For always when the driving ceased 
The sun was almost down. 

Two pairs of bare feet now must part — 

How slow they separate! 
A pretty girlish hand aloft 

Waves good-bye at the gate. 

And thus it was, as there I stood. 

The forms of other days 
Came trooping past my vision down 

Memory's hallowed ways. 

The night passed by, and morning 
came, 

And through my mind was humming 
The cares of business, when I thought 

Of Jackson's big Home-Coming — 

And then of one I used to know 

So many years ago. 
When life was like the morning bright, 

My heart was like its glow. 

(27) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Beneath the words inviting her, 
Three letters — they were the same 

I once remember carving just 
Below my sweetheart's name. 

I sent it, and somehow I wished, 
And wondered if she'd come. 

That we might talk of the dear old 
days 
When we drove the cattle home. 



TO 



Seven sister stars, the Pleiades hight. 

Adorned the heavenly plain, 
Till fate o'ertook one orb of light — 

But six doth now remain. 



Oh, may no cruel power come 

To deal thus ruthlessly, 
And snatch my lovely Pleiad from 
Friendship's galaxy! 



(28) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



AN ODE TO DEATH. 

Often, when the day is spent, 
And Night creeps from his gloomy tent 
In the dim and quiet east; when the sun's at rest 
Behind the crimson battlements of the west, 
And darkness settles down, 
And slumber binds the weary town — 
Then, Death, poised on the murderous steel, you wait 
The coming of the victim to his fate. 

When Love clasps tenderly to mother breast. 

And fondly soothes to rest 

The baby darling, marked from birth 

As all too frail for earth, 

Hope smiles and sings above the tiny face, 

Till shuddering Fear creeps on apace, 

And dark Despair. 

In spite of Love and Hope, in spite of prayer, 

You come with silent tread. 

And snap the slender thread, 

And set the spirit free; — 

Instead of solving, deepen still the mystery. 

I heard the loud hurrah, 
And, looking forth, I saw 
The measured tread of men marching here and there, 

(29) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And saw the dust and smoke of conflict in the air, 

And heard the roar of cannon and the rattle 

Of volleying musketry in the battle. 

Amid the tumult there revealed 

I saw the war-steeds, riderless, stampeding o'er the 

field; 
And in the battle's storm, 
Its fury and its carnage, stalked your form, 
Resolute and unpitying Death, 
Who holds the life of man light as the zephyr's 

breath. 

In yonder hovel, where 
Dwell misery and despair, 
A woman smoothes the pillow, cools the burning 

brow 
Of a once strong man, weak as an infant now. 
About the bare and dingy wall 
The shadows creep and crawl, 
Cast by the flickering firelight's glare. 
Thou, Death, art also there, 
Insatiate vampire, night and day. 
Sapping your victim's life away. 

Again, a wretch whose breast within 
The foul embrace of sin 
Has smothered each emotion save 
Remorse, the hound that tracks us to the grave. 
As he tosses on his bed of pain. 
Fighting the forms his fevered brain 
In wild delirium bids arise 

(30) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

Before his bloodshot eyes, 

There, too, O Death, you sit, a stern, unpitying guest, 

Your fingers, icy cold, ready to be pressed 

On eyelids soon to droop and quiver. 

As the pulse-beats cease, and then to close forever. 

Sometimes you come with pleasing mien, 
Like the sevenfold beauty that is seen 
Belting the sky in the rainbow's form, 
When the clouds have scattered after a storm, 
Upon the cheeks the rose's glow. 
Upon the brow the lily's snow. 
Not long, not long till beauty's bloom gives way 
To the sallow evidences of decay. 
For as the shadows of the night 
Blend with the beauty and the splendor bright 
Of the rising day, beneath 

The bloom upon the cheek lurks thy shadow. Death. 
A little while, a few short days. 
Your victim walks in pleasant ways; 
Pleasures dance along the hours bright and fair. 
And vanish like bubbles in the air, 
Till comes the saddest hour that mortals know. 
When we speak in whispers soft and low. 

Bitter be the change or sweet. 
One fate alike we all must meet. 
One end awaits all human kind. 
The fetters that may bind 
Us to this life must loose their hold, 
Even though they be of gold. 

(31) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Some shudder, Death, at thought of thee. 
And tremble when they see 
Wasting ills, thy sure precursors, come; 
While, weary with their burdens, some 
Are standing by the river-side. 
Beckoning across the tide 
For thee to call 
Them forth and lead them through thy silent hall. 

It is not ours, dread destroyer, to command 
That thou withhold thy devastating hand 
And spare our idols of the passing hour. 
They, too, must perish like the autumn flower 
When touched by Winter's fingers cold, 
Alike the young and old. 
But, O wondrous truth! 

The Soul, clad in the vestments of immortal youth, 
Stands bold and proud. 

And free from wasting ills; 'twill need no shroud. 
The potency of faith lifts from this clod 
The infant spirit to the presence of its God, 
As that of unbelief, no less. 
To conscious forgetfulness. 

As a leaf tossed here and there 

By the pitiless v/inds until 
It finds at length somewhere 

A place where it lieth still, 
So likewise he 
Who idly sings of thee. 
Monarch of all, will find among 

(32) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

Other dead and fallen leaves, erelong, 

A quiet spot where he may lie 

Secure when the storm-clouds sweep the sky. 

Ah, then, approach me softly. Death; 

Lay thy cold hand upon my brow, 
And gently steal away my breath, 
A messenger of mercy now; 
End the worry and the pain. 
The struggle made, I hope not all in vain. 



TO MY FRIEND DR. H. HILDRETH. 

When cossack cares mount and ride out 

Upon their rude forays 
O'er memory's field and put to rout 

The thoughts of other days, 

That, undismayed, oft quick reform 

To make a counter sally, 
Retake the citadel by storm, 

And round their banner rally. 

Among the first, to memory true, 
To wheel for repossession 

Is a kindly thought, friend Doc, of you, 
Leading the procession. 

(33) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



SYLPH. 

*Twas nigh the dusky hour of day 
When Sylph and I were loitering 

Down where the meadow slopes away 
Beyond the barn to Jenkins' spring. 

Along our path wild flowers bloomed, 
As I have known, ah ! many a maid. 

In solitude, fair creature, doomed, 
Uncoveted, to bloom and fade. 

'Twas there the graceful bluebell 
smiled, 

And on the daisy's rights intruded. 
And everywhere the violet wild. 

And dandelion, yellow-hooded. 

We loitered on until the sun 
Red lay upon the forest-top, 

When Sylph her fairy self threw on 
A log and bade our wandering stop. 

And further down the lazy herd 

Browsed where the early shadows 
lay, 

(34) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



And every happy-hearted bird 
Sang farewell to departing day. 

We sat and listened to them sing, 
As slow the waning daylight died, 

But sweeter was the whispering 
Of gentle beauty at my side. 

I put my arms about her waist, 

Half-conscious that I did it, though, 

And saw the two rose-buds that graced 
Her fair cheeks blush with deeper 
glow. 



There, pillowed on my stormy breast, 
My Sylph in trembling rapture lay, 

Her beauty glow^ing like the west 
In splendor robed at close of day. 



Ah, death, thou'st played a double part! 

From earth and pain my Sylph is 
free, 
But in my heart thou'st left the dart 

That took my love away from me. 



My darling, true as shines to-night 
Yon splendid star we used to love, 

(35) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



As is its light thou wast as bright; 
But thou art flown, my gentle dove. 

In vain for me the flowers bloom, 
In vain the pale east heralds dawn. 

And I would not care if morn should 
come 
No more for me since thou are gone. 

About her grave, each chorister. 

Your choicest song I'd have you sing, 

And bear to Heaven my love for her. 
Ye breezes that are whispering. 

Haste hither, Spring, haste and renew 
Your floral wealth in yonder fallow, 

That I the choicest buds may strew 
Upon her grave beneath the wiilov/. 



FOR AN ALBUM. 

Lady, let me wish for thee 

(Who would not wish a fair friend 
v/ell ? ) 
A long, long life whose days may be 

"As merry as a marriage bell." 

(36) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

May Heaven grant that peace of mind 
Thy warm heart would have others 
share, 
And when some flowers thou wouldst 
bind, 
May roses spring up everywhere. 

Oh, may no wintry storms of time 
Disturb the calm of youth's bright 
day; 
May life be like a sunny clime, 
And youth as fair as the month of 
May. 

Thus would I wish for one who bears 
A heart that others' ills doth feel; 

Thus would I wish for her who shares 
Alike another's woe or weal. 



As moonlight on a darksome stream. 
Soft-falling, gilds the v/aters there. 

So gently doth thy goodness seem 
To light the troublous stream of 
care. 



(37) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



ODE TO THE MONTH OF MAY. 

Wildwood flowers, manifold, 
Tangled in her locks of gold; 
White feet wet with meadow dew; 
Cheeks with the cream-white rose's 

hue; 
Smiling like a peri queen; 
Shapely form enrobed in green; 
Scattering with a lavish hand 
Beauty all about the land; 
By the fair skies overhead, 
And the song-birds, heralded, 
Like a fairy, do\vn the way, 
Cometh, cometh lovely May. 
Like my lady's warm, sweet breath, 
Like the sign she whispereth 
When I'm absent for a day. 
Are the breezes, peerless May, 
Laden with the sweets of Spring 
For your queenly honoring. 

May, you typify to me 
Endless spring-time that's to be. 
Past the setting of the sun. 
When my work and worry's done, 

(38) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



And the winter, oh, so cold! 

And the clouds away have rolled. 

May, you typify to me 

Much that I dare hope to see. 



TO SPRING. 



Who the hawthorn has bereft 
Of blossoms white, with fingers deft, 
And fashioned for your lovely brow 
A garland, Spring, and decked you 
now? 



Who has plucked those flowers fair 
And dressed them in your sunny hair, 
And a wondrous robe of green 
Woven for the matchless queen? 

Time of song-birds, time of flowers, 
Warm south winds and fresh'ning 

showers. 
Time of humming of the bees 
In the blossom-burdened trees. 

(39) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

Something of thy beauty, Spring, 
Mirror in this heart of mine; 

Something of thy promise bring 

From that bounteous store of thine. 

Melt the ice from out my heart, 
Bid each evil thought depart; 
Let thy genial influence move 
To deeds of kindness and of love. 

See my brother, weary-worn. 
Care-oppressed, by passion torn; 
Let thy cheerful sunshine reign 
In his troubled breast again — 

Joy in one continuous stream 

Ripple through his heart, I pray, 

As, sparkling in the sunlight's gleam, 
The brooklet laughs along its way. 



TO A WOOD WREN. 

Sweet birdling of the wood, 
Of light and restless wing, 

Why in the depths of solitude 
Art thou wintering? 

(40) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Say, hast thou luckless flown 
Far from thy tiny race, 

On venturous whig and all alone, 
To this wild place? 



Knowst thou not how to find 

Again thy native wood. 
Where hawk nor th* savage prowling 
kind 

Thirst for thy blood? 

No, thou'rt not lost, for thine 
Is that sweet chirp now heard, 

That frolic wing. Thou dost not pinei, 
My little bird. 



Hither to th' forest vast, 

And coverts thick, thou'st flown, 
To bide till winter's storms are past, 

And spring comes on. 



But, birdie, didst thou reck 

That whilst from wintry storm 

Thou'rt safe, all round's a murd'rous 
pack 
Would do thee harm? 



(41) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

What if the prowling coon, 

Or cunning mink, should steal 

Upon thy roost and make, too soon, 
Of thee a meal? 

Then when the spring would come 
The meadow, field and tree 

Would don their robes again, and 
bloom. 
But not for thee. 



Oh, may so sad a fate 

Ne'er on my birdie gather; 

Light be thy wing to distant date, 
Nor ruffed a feather. 

Good-bye, sweet wren, again 
My lingering feet must tramp; 

An empty pot hangs in the crane- 
Meat's scarce at camp. 



EUGENE FIELD. 

Lately, from His home on high, 
Somewhere 'way up in the sky, 

(42) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



The good, kind Lord sent down 
His angel and invited one, 
Whose labors here on on earth were 
done. 

To come and get his crown. 

He whom the angel took away 
Loved little children so, they say, 

That when the good man died, 
And they were told that he v/as dead. 
Each bowed in grief his little head. 

And cried, and cried, and cried. 



But little children who had gone 
To Heaven, and were sitting on 

The Savior's knees, when they 
Looked out and saw him coming, ran. 
Shouting, as only children can, 

To meet him on the way. 

Scampering across the heavenly lawn. 
Forgetting all about the throne. 

And everything so great, 
Eager to take him by the hand, 
When Mr. Field, at God's command. 

Entered the golden gate. 



(43) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



FLOWERS. 

Except the flowers blooming 
In the garden of the heart, 

There's nothing more beautiful, 
In nature or in art, 



Than the little violet blossoms 
That peep up in the spring, 

Or bluebells on the hillside, 
In the forest clustering. 



Oh, the beauty of the flowers, 

Blooming here and there, 
Is light for us reflected 

From a brighter world somewhere! 



Won't He who made the flowers. 
And clothed them in the light. 

The beauty and purity 
Of His presence bright. 

Into the depths of my soul, 
Darkened by the clouds of sin, 

Mirror some heavenly beauty. 
Let His light shine in? 

(44) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



LINES TO A BIRD, 

Cruel the art, 
Poor bird, that killed and placed you there 

To form a part 
Of that fair lady's plumage rare. 

Who will consent 
That she, who hither came to pray. 

Has a heart as innocent 
As yours was in its gladsome day? 

And who can tell 
If the praise she offers in this throng 

Is as acceptable 
As once ascended with your song? 

Whatever land 
Claimed your nativity, there 

The same kind Hand 
Created you that did the lady fair. 

Throughout your days 
Your little throat was made and meant 

To sing God's praise, 
Unharmed, a harmless instrument; 

(45) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And th' religion that 
Would take your pretty form and pin 

It to a lady's hat 
May point to Heaven, but — not enter in. 



DICK. 

The old banjo, clasped in its cover, 

Lies on the shelf unstrung; 
About it, cobwebbed, dusty, hover 

Quaint old songs unsung, 

For Dick is gone, 
And with him joy and sweet content have flown. 

The lamp gives forth a feeble glow, 

Reluctant to be bright. 
Just like my spirit, sad and low, 

Unwilling to be light, 

Since Dick is gone; 
And weary, weary now the night wears on. 

Yes, Dick is dead; hushed are his songs, 

And hushed his banjo, too; 

Gone where to be my spirit longs, 

Beyond the heavens' blue, 

For life is drear. 

And living has for me but little cheer. 

(46) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

As simple as the songs he sung, 

And tender as a lover 
But he's like his banjo now, unstrung, 

And lies there in his cover. 

How Pity sighed 
Upon that woful day when poor Dick died! 

Where oft, at dubious twilight's stilly hour, 

Bright angels come from Heaven's gate to sing; 
Where, waked by southern breeze or vernal shower, 

The early spring birds' joyous carols ring, 
And sound of busy bees at noon floats o'er the honied 

green, 
Freed from the troublous cares of life, the minstrel 
sleeps serene. 



ODE TO THE EAST WIND. 

Blow back, blow back. East Wind! Why stay 

To torment mortals so 
The livelong night, the livelong day? 

Blow backward, blow! 

Why league your influence fell 
With the black cat's spell 

(47) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



That leaped across the path in front of me? 

Yon misty star that now I see 

Dim in the heavens low, 

As if ashamed to show 

Its sickly face in the presence bright 

Of fair Arcturus of the golden hair, 
Sends down from out the northern night 

111 omens plenty and to spare, 
Without the added portents which you bring, 
Unwelcome East Wind, on your evil wing. 

I would rather see a yeoman bring a hoe 

In my front door than have you blow. 

Oh, dreaded East Wind, quick, return again 

Across the eastern plain 

To caverns deep where you are wont to bide 

In some steep and rugged mountain's side! 

Have I not seen the grain field swept by you, 

The rich soil sickened and crops cease to grow 

Where once they grew 

Luxurient? Oh, East Wind, backward blow! 

Some nights while in my chamber there 

I'm sitting, dreaming with head bowed low, 
You come and blow; 

Then, rallying from everywhere, 

Those fates that pester mortals come unseen 
In the invisible garments of the night. 

And augur things to happen that have never been, 



(48) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And fill my soul with fright. 
I hear them outside in the gloom, 
And yonder in that haunted room 

They rattle the window-pane; 
And in the garret overhead 
I hear invisible footfalls tread 

Again, and again; 
And screaming with fright, 
Birds that sleep at night 
And in the day time sing, do come and go 
Whene'er you blow 
After the sun is down 

And the stars are out; 

And all about 
The quiet town 

Dogs leave their kennels and begin to howl; 
And from the woods the horned owl ^ 

Flies to the elm near by. 

And, East Wind, ever as you blow. 
His screams, like an old witch's cry, 

Pierce me, chill me, fright me so. 

And, mixed with these, there sometimes come beneath 
The midnight moon, whene'er you blow, 

Of Hecate's tribe that mat on Forres' heath 

The ingrate who laid good King Duncan low; 

And spells are wrought that make my blood run chill 

In every vein, and my stout heart stand still. 

And if you come when the day god on 

His golden car sets the wide heavens aflame, 

(49) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



And bids the stars be gone, 

Your evil influence is just the same. 

The cattle that are browsing when 

You fan the pastures green, as all men know, 
Take on no added flesh, because you blow. 

The industrious hen, 

Infertile as a prude, 

Drops eggs that ne'er will make a brood. 

Full many times I've heard them say 
That when you blow the granddam grey. 
With foresight keen, and judgment best. 
The nursing babe lifts from its mother's breast 
And three times through a chair that's bottomless 
Passes back and forth the lump of helplessness 
To ward of ills that sometimes fret 
The hopeful, such as colic, croup, et cet. 

Oh, East Wind, who is it that does not know 

The ills you bring to mortals when you blow? 

Quick, then, return again 

Across the eastern plain 

To caverns deep where you are wont to bide 

In some steep and rugged mountain-side. 



(50) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



TO A LITTLE CHICKEN FOUND 
OUT IN THE COLD. 

(In the Brogue of the Scotch.) 

When a' aroond was frozen fast, 
An' January sent its blast 
Blowing frae the bleak norwast 

Wi' furious din, 
An' your wee life was nigh its last, 

I took you in. 

Wi' pity's hand I gied you food, 

An' wrapped you up sae warm an' 

gude. 
That soon in sic a lively mood 

You did appear 
I thought in hours o' solitude 

You'd gie me cheer. 

The way you rin about the floor, 
An' picked its surface ower an'ower, 
I guess you thought that never more 

The cauld, cauld wind 
Would roond your tender body roar 

Wi' touch unkind. 

(51) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



When e'ening cam' I tried my best 

To mak' for you a cozy nest, 

Where cat nor cauld might you molest, 

An' when 'twas done 
I put you where I thought you'd rest 

Till night were gone. 

But when the daylight cam' ance mair, 
Sae chilly was the morning air, 
That wi' fear a-bordering on despair, 

I approached your bed, 
An* found you, orphaned chickie, there, 

A* cauld an' dead. 

We needna close the door on death; 
Na winds that scour ower the heath 
Are half sae cauld as is his breath, 

It will steal in 
In spite o' a' the powers beneath 

The blazing sin. 

For your mither thro' the lang, chill 

night 
How maun you've ca'd wi^ voice sae 

slight. 
Still thinking somev/here aff she might 

Chance hear you weep, 
Till death, moved at your helpless 
plight. 
Soothed you to sleep. 

(52) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

Out yonder where the bleak winds 

blaw, 
Where cauld can't bite nor hunger 

gnaw, 
Laigh underneath the white, white 
snaw 
Maun be your grave; 
There your sleep will better be than a' 
My pity gave. 

A* roond amang the rich an' grand, 
In every corner o' the land, 
Puir little human chickies stand 

In want an' sin, 
Oh, whase will be the tender hand 

To tak' them in? 



TO A LITTLE CHILD. 

In fancy I have often heard 

Seraphic voices calling. 
And from the starry heavens I've seen 

Bright sparks of beauty falling; 
And I had thought 'twas but a glimpse 

Of beauty I should see, 
But, baby-bright-eyes, I behold 

The soul of beauty, seeing thee. 

(53) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



PITY. 



Pity, how tender is thy touch! 

Soft as the down that lies 
On the cheeks of maiden beauty, 
As a zephyr when it dies. 

How gentle is thy voice! From out 
The depths of love it flows, 

Like the voice of the wind about 
A soiled and stricken rose. 

An angel from the sky, sent down 

By the great God of love: 
When the deluge is at its height, 

A green leaf and a dove. 

Where all is dark, and when the heart 
Yearns for a mother's prayer, 

For a mother's voice that can not come, 
Sweet Pity, thou art there. 

The heart, kind angel, moved by thee 
To soothe another's pain, 

(54) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Receives in measure doubly rich 
The blessing back again. 

Oh, enter thou this breast of mine, 

Give me, a broken reed, 
The courage and the strength to be 

A help in time of need. 



BROTHER BEN. 

My friend and brot&er editor, Ben H. Adams, quits 
the Dewspaper bosiaess. 

Is the rumor true, that, everywhere. 

Is bandied over town. 
The sponge has gone up in the air, 

And you've laid your f aber down ? 

For forty years or more you've pushed 

That weapon in your den. 
And watched the quarry as it rushed 
To cover. Brother Ben. 

Its business end you'd often wield 
Deserving knaves to flout, 

(55) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



The other, erring worth to shield, 
Would rub their failings out. 

At times traduced, reviled and dubbed 

The wickedest of men. 
Because, forsooth, you often rubbed 

It to 'em, Brother Ben. 

Knaves stood and trembled through 
and through 

At facts you often penned; 
But who has ever heard of you 

Going back upon a friend? 

But now you're out, perhaps for good. 

For time is pressing hard; 
Although on different lines we've stood, 

Here's luck to you, old pard. 

Somehow I hate to see it, Ben, 
For it brings to mind, you know, 

The not far-distant hour when 
They'll smile to see me go. 



(56) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



THE MOVER GIRL, 

Jackson's streets were full of people 

On a summer Saturday; 
The clock up in the court-house steeple 

Tolled the sultry hours away. 

That day some movers stopped in town, 
And one could plain discover 

By their old wagon, most run down, 
And its weather-beaten cover, 

That they were people rather worse 
Off in the world than many; 

The man, I guess, had in his purse 
But little cash, if any. 

'Twas by the store the wagon halted. 

Within a locust's shade, 
And soon upon the pavement vaulted 

A lovely mover maid. 

There, in her home-spun country dress, 
The artless beauty shone; 

I could not think she looked the less 
Like, as I've often known, 

(57) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



A pretty wild-flower in the wood 

Dressed round with brush and brier, 

And withered leaves — a very rude, 
Inelegant attire. 

Dark as midnight was her hair, 
Whose glossy tresses draped 

A neck as perfect and as fair 
As chisel ever shaped. 

There nature plied her brush so well. 

And all her power spent, 
'Twas like the soft shades in a shell 
Of cream and crimson blent. 

And ever as I looked at her, 

Like the modest jonquil flower, 

She'd hang her head as if she were 
Ashamed to own her power. 

Her cheeks were tinged with the dyes 
that set 

Aflame the sunset skies; 
And I could not, if I would, forget, 

I know, those hazel eyes, 

For on me still their vestal glow 
Doth fall, or so it seems. 

(58) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

(I wonder whose glance shun they 
now, 
Where now their soft light gleams.) 

But, ah! too soon our sweet dreams 
fade, 

Too soon the blossoms blight. 
And soon, too soon, my mover maid 

Was hurried from my sight. 

My heart is not a truant, no. 

Gone with that girl a-moving; 

It feels somewhat nomadic, though, 
And not averse to roving. 

My breast, impervious, long has dared 
The blue-eyed archer's arrow. 

But this escape, though yet I'm spared, 
Confess I must was narrow. 



ON LEARNING OF THE MARRIAGE 
OF AN OLD SWEETHEART. 

May Peace, the mild-eyed, gentle dove, 

Attend the happy twain. 
And all through life the light of love 

Gild wedlock's holy chain. 

(59) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



THE VAGABONDS. 



His name is Tige, an' I picked 'im up 

In Eelinois, w'en he wuz a pup. 

Onery, eh? Wal, that mout be, 

But thar's p'ints about 'im yer don't see, 

An' I wouldn't give 'im fur no man's hoss. 

Yer needn't grin — that's gospel, boss. 

Fleas ? Yes, I obsarve he shakes that lim' 

Ez ef thar mout be a few a-pesterin' 'im. — 

What's that, stranger? P'inter? No. Setter? 

He's not that, nuther, but a dog that's better 

'n any yer fine-ha'red breed. That cur 

I'll put 'g'inst dogs from anywher' 

Fur locatin' varmints in trees an' logs. 

An' standin' guard, an' ketchin' hogs. 

An' the like er that. But these p'ints, sir, 

Ain't the most uv what I like 'im fur. 

D' yer see me, stranger, me. Jack Primm? 
Wal, I wouldn't be her ef 'twusn't fur him. 
Now lis'n, pard: Three year ago 
I worked on a tie contrac', yer know, 
Down 'n Stoddard County. Livin' wuz rough 
Down thar, my frien', an' the crowd wuz tough. 
Ten cents a tie wuz the price they paid, 
An' yer had ter take it out 'n trade, 

(60) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

Jest ez that feller Holliday 

Is makin' 's men do now, they say. 

But I worked along an' enjoyed life 

In them days, pard, w'en Nell wuz my wife. — 

Turn 'er roun', Polly girl, so ez he 
Kin see yer face. Our Polly — she 
's our unly child; an* ther' never wuz 
Two looked more 'like then her 'n 'er mother does. 

I follered tiein* fer about a year, 
W'en I noticed she acted a little queer, 
Did Nell — the way she treated me. 
She wuzn't like she used ter be. 
It bothered me some, but I thought it best 
Ter do my part 'n' let her do the rest. 
So I worked on reg'lar, ez a poor man hez 
Ter do, 'n' trusted ter luck, ez the feller says. 

One mornin* Nell wuz fussin' an' stewin', 
Ez she sometimes done. An', jest ter be doin', 
I joked her a little, an', says she ter me, 
She wished I'd die so ez Arch Crabtree 
Could take my place. Ever sence that day 
Things fer Jack's bin runnin' t'other way. 
Crabtree wuz the feller that knocked me out. 
He didn't work, but jest used about. 

It wuzn't long arter, w'en one hot di-y 
I wuz gittin out ties in the usual way, 
An* Crabtree come up ter chat awhile, 
Appearantly in a friendly style. 

(61) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

He set on a log thar 'n hour or more, 

Ez he hed done several times before; 

An' while I wuz workin' with my back ter him, 

Expectin' nothin', he grabbed a Km' 

An' fetched me a lick that turned up my toes, 

An' left me fer dead, ez I suppose. 

I laid thar helpless tell 'way next day, 

An' the nighest house a mile away. 

I hollered loud, and I thought they ort 

'er hev hearn me, but my breath wuz short, 

I reckon, fur he hit ter kill, 

An' he didn't like much uv hevin' his will. 

Tige here wuz with me, an' he hollered, too, 

He barked, I mean — looked like he knew. 

Arter awhile the critter begin ter whine, 

An' come an' put his nose ter mine, 

An' licked my face, then snuffed the air 

A little bit while standin' there, 

An* looked down at me in a pitiful way. 

'Long *bout the middle uv the* day, 
I reckon it wuz, 'twixt grunt an' groan, 
I stirred a little an' seed Tige wuz gone. 
'Twuzn't long tell he come back agin. 
An' acted ez ef tellin' me whar he'd bin, 
An* barked an' whined around awhile, 
An' cried about it like a chile. 
Then trotted off, then back. Then come 
The folks with a wagon an' hauled me home, 
Like a crippled soldier, which once't I'd bin. 
An' put me in purty good shape agin, 

(62) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



An* patched me up an' I soon got straight. 
But Nell, she left on the very same date 
That Crabtree done me up with a lim'. 
Uv course when she went she went with him.- 

That bell means church, I reckon. Well, 
Polly, we'll 'tend. I allers told Nell 
We'd bring up Polly in the way that's right, 
An' ef Nell her duty's seen fit to slight, 
I'll try to do the best I kin, 
Ter keep Polly's feet out'n the ways uv sin. 



When night came on, some miles on the road 
Out from the town he flung down his load. 
And the vagabonds struck camp for the night, 
And soon had a big fire blazing bright. 
If others' eyes could have seen them there 
Before sleep came to banish care. 
They'd have seen the man in reverent thought. 
And heard this prayer by the angels taught: 

"Father above, watch over Thy own, 
Take care of poor mother wherever she's gone. 
If out in the dangerous world there be 
Other little wanderers just like me. 
Keep them safe in Thy tender care. 
This, dear Jesus, is my little prayer," 



(63) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



MARGERY. 

My Margery, sweet Margery, 
Each day would very gloomy be 
Without the pure love-light divine 
Beaming from those eyes of thine, 
Comforting and cheering me, 
Sweet Margery, my Margery. 

When morning's light begins to pale 
The eastern skies, 'twould not avail 
To rout the gloom besetting me 
Without your love, my Margery; 
Night would linger through the day, 
And joy take wing and fly away. 

Would count for naught and idle be 
All the seeming witchery 
In morning's glow and evening's gloom, 
In birds that sing and flowers that 
bloom, 
Did I not love and were not loved 
By you whose heart I've constant 
proved. 

(64) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



I saw you once when sickness pale 
Had seized on you, and watched you 

fail 
From day to day. And when I prayed 
That death's dire purpose might be 
stayed, 
His dart glanced from the shining 

shield 
Protecting Heaven there revealed. 

And you were spared, my Margery, 
To bless and cheer and comfort me. 
Long as the sun presumes to burn 
And bring the day on its return, 

You'll changeless be in your true 
love, 

And I will likewise constant prove. 



IN THE GARDEN. 



In yonder tree the cat-bird 

Is singing to the sun 
His roundelay of greeting 

For the day that's just begun. 

(65) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



A hundred thousand flowers 
Are blooming here and there. 

Lavishly surrendering 

Their sweetness to the air. 

The bumble-bee is droning 
About from bloom to bloom, 

To bill into the hollyhock 

The humming-bird has come. — 

Ah! yonder sits a maiden 

Under the lilac tree, 
Pining for her lover — 

Wonder who he can be. 

Poor thing! I'll hasten to her, 
Wipe her tear-damped eyelids dry, 

Sighing for her lover — 
Maybe it is I. 



A LULLABY. 

Peeping thro' the window-pane, 

Dancing in the air, 
Looking at baby 

With the flaxen hair; 

(66) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Peeping through the window, 
What was it the fairy said 

To little baby 
In her tiny bed? 



"Sleep, little baby, 

Till the break of dawn, 
Angels watch o'er you 

Till the night is gone; 



"See that no elfin 

Take baby 'way 
From her little cradle 

Before the break of day. 



"See that the Winkleman, 
With the ugly face. 

Steal not baby 
From her little place. 



"Baby's little slumber ship 
Is sailing near the moon- 
Sail on, little voyager, 
Day will break soon." 



(67) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



WHEN I AM GONE. 



When I am gone whom would I have come round 
To make things cheerful near my grassy mound? 

I'll tell you what would best 

Become my place of rest: 
Let my loved favorites of the field and air 
And circling forest often visit there. 

The lonesom6 Turtle Dove 

There call unto his love 
At early morn, at noon or eventide, 
Until his truant mate flies to his side. 

And the Robin there be seen 

Hopping o'er the green, 
And stately Fiel'-Lark sing his morning song, 
And Yellow-Hammer, too, come lumbering 'long. 

And early in the spring 

The little Blue-Bird sing 
About the place. And should not now and then 
Come there to see me, too, the brown Wood-Wren ? 

(68) 



LITTLE BOOK OP VERSES. 



And there from bush to bush 

Should flit the gifted Thrush 
And music make. The sweet-voiced Cat-Bird, too, 
Should sing his tender song the whole day through. 

And in the tall trees near 

One frequently should hear 
The noisy Black-Bird calling to his mate, 
In leafy spring, at morn or evening late. 

And there should sometimes come 

And sit and beat his drum 
The gaudy Woodpecker, as if he would 
Awake to life the sleeper if he could. 

And on some neighboring tree 

A visitor should be 
The old black Crow, and, as he's wont to do, 
Look round awhile and caw a time or two. 

Then when the twilight comes. 

And the whirring beetle hums, 
I hope from out the woods the Owl will fly, 
And sound his doleful note near where I lie. 

And slyly creeping out 
From stubble roundabout, 



(69) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Bob White should come and perch and whistle 

there 
In that lone place unto his lady fair. 

The Red-Bird and the Jay, 

I know, will pick a day 
And from the thicket come to visit me. 
And hop and fly about from tree to tree. 

And one should often hear 

That little creature queer, 
The Humming-Bird, as busy as a bee, 
Darting 'mongst the blooming shrubbery. 

In gay and joyous spring. 

The Oriole should bring 
His lady there to hang her nest on high 
In some tall tree not far from where I lie. 

And on a cloudy day. 
The chittering Swallows, they. 
When it has rained, should fly about my mound. 
Sailing swiftly low down near the ground. 

And when the night is near. 

The Bullbat should appear, 
And fly around upon expansive wing 
About the place where I am slumbering. 

(70) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



In snowy winter time 
Should frequent there and climb 
About the branches of the trees and sit 
And peck the bark Sapsucker and Tomtit. 

And one should come there, too, 

The little Sparrow, who 
Delights to flit around in playful rout. 
Clinging to the weed-stocks roundabout. 

When come the cold and cleet. 
The Snow-Bird, too, should greet 

The winter Sparrow there, and there also 

Pay his respects, the little Eskimo. 

And on th* approach of night 

His solitary flight 
The Heron oft will bend o'er field and dell 
To pass the place where I am resting well. 

From early spring until 

The frost is on the hill. 
While other warblers wonder at his power. 
The Mockingbird should sing there hour by hour. 

In summer-time the Shrike, 
Upon a mullein-spike, 

(71) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Should sit not far away and look as though 
He'd lost a friend in him who lieth low. 

The Rain-Crow, too, should fly, 

When it is hot and dry 
In summer-time, to some tree-top that's green, 
And croak for rain to come refresh the scene. 

The Redwing Black-Bird, he. 

Flying from tree to tree. 
Should let his liquid voice in music flow 
To make it cheerful round the scene below. 

When the moonlight's over all, 
The Whip-poor-will should call 
Near by my grave his mate across the hill. 
Or in the grove along the rippling rill. 

If, then, when I am gone 

None come to look upon 
My grave but loved ones who bemoan my fall 
And these dear friends, what matters it at all ? 



(72) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



EVENING BEFORE THE FIRST FROST. 

Hushed now the blust'ring sound 
Of norland winds; the clouds have passed away, 
All save a lingering few that gather round 

The couch of dying day. 

From the dark'ning heavens high 
The autumn moonbeams fall like golden lances; 
A diamond in the gloomy eastern sky, 

Bright Mars advances. 

The twilight beetle's boom 
The stillness breaks of some more southern clime; 
Hark! deep-sounding thro' the thick'ning gloom, 

The town clock strikes the time. 

Chill are the evening airs, 
And the Borean king, upon some icy height. 
Now plies his frosty shuttle and prepares 

The earth a robe of white. 

Home from the crowded streets, 
With buttoned coat, hastes now the business wight, 
And thus his neighbor at the wood-pile greets. 

With, "We'll have frost to-night." 

(73) ' 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

The noisy cur is still, 
We note him bark and, playful, leap no more, 
But, shivering there out in the twilight chill, 

He, whining, paws the door. 

In yonder lot the swine, 
With instinct true, prepares his grassy bed. 
And, wheeling, shakes the weeds, a truthful sign 

Of winter near ahead. 

Where is my favorite bird. 
The many-noted warbler whose sweet song. 
When comes the peaceful twilight hour is heard 

Th' suburban trees among? 

Snug in some cedar-tree. 
On whose high top he's wont to sing so gay, 
Or, hid in yonder sheltering spruce-pine, he 

Awaits another day. 

Oh, see those flowers there. 
Unconscious all of their impending doom! 
Knew they their peril would they seem so fair? 

So gaily would they bloom? 

I know 'tis weakness quite, 
But sooth I scarce can stay the rising tear, 
So soon to see unconscious beauty's blight, 

Its bright bloom disappear. 

(74) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



See, see how wondrous fair 
The tree-tops look, gay-gilded by the sun! 
Their deep-green leaves, tho', tremble in despair, 

For now their race is run. 

Adown the sallow dell 
By dark December's storms they'll soon be borne, 
With ruthless violence and hurled pell-mell, 

Of all their beauty shorn. 

Thus for a little date 
Poor heedless man disports him light and gay, 
But soon come on the blust'ring winds of fate 

And he is swept away. 



CUPID AND THE SERPENT. 

I took me to the fields one summer's day, 
When Ceres, rustic queen, her golden hair 

Waved o'er the ripening grain. While on my way 
I spied a crystal fountain bubbling where 
O'erspreading trees shut out the sunlight's glare, 

And some few blooms around the margin blent 

Their fragrance with the spicy peppermint, 

(75) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And burdened with their sweets the breezes there. 
I was athirst, and forth my form I bent 
To quaff refreshment from that tempting spring, 
When, lo! a serpent with a deadly sting 
Leaped thence and stung me, cruel punishment. 
Long, long I suffered, and I'm sure no dart 
Could give such pain, tho' it should pierce my heart. 



All this was in the May-time of my life, 

When sprightly youth as yet had never known 

The freaks of Love. Again (earth now was rife 
With vernal beauty) I walked out alone. 
The bluebells were in bloom, the haw, new-blown. 

With blossoms white, and fair sweet-williams, too, 

And violet with eye of heaven's blue; 

And sweet was heard the brown thrush's amorous 
tone. 

But, lack-a-day! I met a maiden who 

Outshone the auburn-tressed Morn, and, lo! 

From by her side Love sprang his fatal bow, 

And sent his wicked dart my poor heart through. 
Love and the serpent should combine their bane 
The day that finds me strolling out again. 



(76) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



WALK WITH THY CHILD. 

Thou who didst conquer Death, 

Walk with thy child through this dark vale. 
Sustain his too imperfect faith, 

Lest it may some time fail, 
Till broken lies the golden bowl, 

And open stands the prison gate. 
When, unrestrained, the wistful soul 

Shall seek its high estate. 
As some skilled player who can wake 

No notes responsive to his skill. 
On a harp of an inferior make, 

And bids the chords be still. 
Takes up an instrument of perfect tone. 
Whereon his wondrous power is shown, 
So shall the spirit lay aside 

This instrument of coarse design, 
And, in its power and its pride. 

Strike one with fire divine. 



(77) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



CONNIE'S GRAVE. 



Bring hither, Spring, your choicest flowers, 
And let them bloom full bonny; 

Bring here your birds, in the long, long hours, 
And let them sing for Connie. 



Here, Summer, let your sounding bees 

Their busy labors tend; 
To cheer the spot, the gentle breeze 

And fresh'ning shower send. 

And, Autumn, when you doom to death 

The verdant life around, 
Oh, do not blow your chilly breath 

About this tiny mound. 

King Winter, curb your noisy car 
When by this way you come, 
For fear the sacred scene you mar 
Around this little tomb. 



(78) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



LITTLE CONNIE. 

BY A. G. McGUIRE. 

Little feet upon the railing, 
Little fingers grip the gate, 

Pretty eyes peep through the paling, 
Look for papa, coming late, 

Loving eyes that, every evening. 
Peep at papa through the gate. 

When the frost came for the flowers, 
When the winds were growing wild, 

Angels, gathering up the leaflets. 
Took away our darling child, 

Bore her gently up to Heaven, 
Where no winds are blowing wild. 

Ever watching at the gateway, 
Watching at the golden bars, 

Peeping 'way down thro' the darkness. 
From her home among the stars; 

Calling papa, in the darkness. 
From her home among the stars; 

Laughing eyes that look for papa. 
Dancing eyes that come and wait, 

(79) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



All alone poor little Connie 
Watches at the golden gate; 

Little Connie, light of Heaven, 
Peeping thro* the golden gate. 

And she thinks we all are coming, 

In her innocent delight. 
For she knows no other pathway 

But the one that leads to light — 
Came, and went back up to Heaven, 

In the path that leads to light. 

When our brightest flowers are fading, 
When the winds are growing wild. 

Let us gather in the pathway. 
Leading to our darling child. 



AT ASHLAND. 

These hoary pine and cedar trees 

That drop their feeble bows to rot. 
And nod so doubtful in the breeze, 

Will pass away and be forgot; 
But, Clay, long as our flag shall wave 

O'er city, town and plain and steep, 
So long shall garlands deck your grave, 

And patriots there be seen to weep. 

(80) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



OLD BLAZE. 

In early spring, oft when the weary day 
Crept down the west and slowly entered in 

Its golden gate, and breezes died away, 

He would leave the village and its hated din; 

And yonder where that hill looks down the brook 
O'er meadows stretching to the distant wood. 

Is where the lonely man himself betook, 
In solitude o'er nature's charms to brood. 

Long would he linger there upon that hill 
To listen to the frog-choir's quivering song, 

And to the calling of the whip-poor-will. 
Whose curious cry is heard the whole night long. 

And well I mind, when I was yet a child, 
How often I would meet a lonely man, 

Out in the fields, or in the forest wild. 
Or wandering where the shadowed streamlet ran. 

That time I knew him as the town-folks did, — 
"Old Blaze." Forsooth, he bore no other name. 



(81) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Perhaps beneath his dingy garments hid 
A soul that may have felt the poet's flame. 

Mayhap Old Blaze's was a bosom which 

Confined a soul with powers that fall to few, 

Tuned to a Burns' or Bryant's tender pitch, 
Or felt the flame a Milton's spirit knew. 

Time slipped away, and soon the whip-poor-will 
And meadow-choir sweet music made no more; 

The fields, the brooks, and his accustomed hill 
No charms for duller spirits ever bore. 

Old Blaze passed off, his smothered spark went out; 

None ever saw its bright and heavenly gleams. 
But somewhere far away from here, no doubt, 

Unsmothered are its bright and heavenly beams. 



ODE TO A HONEY BEE. 

When the sun bursts through the eastern gloom, 
And the day unfolds like a flower in bloom. 
And the amazing skill of the Master Hand 
Has spread His glory o'er the land, 

(82) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

Like an arrow speeding from the bow, 
Forth from your waxen home you go. 

Lost to the sight that is given me, 

But Another's eye doth follow thee, 

And marks thy flight from bloom to bloom, 

And thy return when the shadows come. 

All day long among the flowers, 

And the blossoms sweet in the sunny hours, 

No selfish motive urging you, 

Your ceaseless labor you pursue. 

For others' good, from day to day, 

You toil your little life away. 

Bringing from the wood and dell 

Wherewith to fashion, cell on cell, 

The only handiwork we know 

Touches perfection here below, 

Gathering from the flowery fields 

The honied store that nature yields. 

Oh, wonder-working little bee, 

Stop a moment and tell me 

Whence comes your power to form at will 

Your hexic cell with matchless skill. 

Assembling, like a master mind, 

Th' unerring rules of science, combined 

With those of art, till men have gazed 

Upon your work and stood amazed. 



(83) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

(Why boast, proud man, to you is given, 
Alone, the spark divine from heaven? 
Behold here in the little bee 
The same light God has given thee.) 



Little brown bee, a tiny thing, 
Rich tlie lesson you do bring. 
In you we mortals may behold 
The philosophy of life unfold. 
The purpose reaching down from God 
Through man, through you, unto the sod- 
That all the worry, all the strife. 
The plan, the purpose of this life 
Is but to labor like the bee. 
Toiling on unselfishly. 
Our wasting energies employ 
For others' good, for others' joy, 
With faith unfaltering that the eye 
That marks the bee will, by and by, 
When the shadows of the evening come, 
Follow still, and guide us home. 



(84) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



LINES 

Written in anticipation of a hunt in the Big Swamp forty miles south of Jackson. 

Swift, swift fly the days and bring round the glad 
morning 
When swampward we'll tramp it light-hearted and 
gay, 
When we'll strike for that shanty, the hut that's 
adorning, 
A wilderness wild some few miles down the way. 



How I long to be there where the light deer are 
bounding 

Through bramble and brake, o'er bottom and bog, 
And hear through the day the wild hunter a-hounding, 

And watch for my chance by some tree or old log! 

How I long to be there where the owl's nightly 
screaming 
Disturbs the dark stillness like an old witch's wail. 
Where at night the cold stars through the cypress 
are beaming 
To light the lone coon on his foraging trail! 



(85) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



By the black "Otter Pond" let me soon be a-wan- 
dering, 
And down where "The Opening" its grandeur un- 
folds; 
Along the "Big Slough" let me soon be meandering, 
Or out where the ghostly "Big Overflow" scolds. 

Than the wolf's hungry howl what music is sweeter, 
As deep in the dark night he venture's to roam ? 

Than the sv/amp hunter's pleasure what pleasure's 
completer, 
The forest his field, a rude shanty his home? 



BUNNY DEAD. 



When I got home an' foun' my Bunny dead, 
I turned away f 'om him an' hung my head 

An' cried, 
I wus so sorry. Bunny looked so spry 
An' happy when I left. I wonder why 

He died. 



(86) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



If Fd knowed he wus sick I'd stayed away 
F'om school, I would, an' doctored him that day. 

That's what 
A feller gits by goin' to school all time. 
Schools ain't no 'count nohow, ain't worth this dime 

I've got. 

When papa come an' sister called an' said 
To him that my poor little squir'l wus dead, 

He then 
Said somethin', an' I looked at him an' tried 
To keep f 'om cryin' 'n' couldn't, an' I cried 

Again. 

Mamma said come in to dinner, there's somethin' 

good. 
But I went 'round behind the house an' stood ^ 

Awhile, 
An' wiped the tears away, an' never cried 
No more, but straightened up my face an' tried 

To smile. 

But I must come to dinner, mamma said; 
But all I et wus just a piece of bread; 

An' then 
I started back to school, an' v>^ent 'round by 
His cage an' looked at him, an' had to cry 

Again. 

(87) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



When school let out, down under th' apple tree 
Me an' sister dug a grave, an' soon as we 

Got done it, 
We buried Bunny there, then hunted 'round 
An' laid some weed tops for flovN^ers that we found 

Upon it. 

An' I went an' got a brick, one that wus red, 
An' put it for a tombstone at his head 

To stay, 
An' scratched his name on it, an' then we bent 
Down by the grave an' spelled his name an' went 

Away. 



AN EDITOR. 

Tired and sleepy, fingering his mail, 
The editor sits in his big armchair, 

Close by his side, thimbling away. 
His little wife sits mending a "tear," 

Just such a one as, many a time, 

He'd mended himself when he hadn't a dime. 

m) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

Scoffed at and scorned by the cruel world, 
Sometimes he is driven almost to despair; 

But down Goodluck Street a loved one waits 
To smile away the clouds of care — 

Just such clouds, if he hadn't a wife, 

Would darken his path and shadow his life. 



LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 



Lightly as the dew-drop lying 

On the leaf at peep of dawn, 
Gently as the snow-flake, flying, 

Kisses what it falls upon, 
Thus, oh Time, thus gently lay 

Your hand on her you should not wrong. 
Sweet girl, I would that every day 

Might pass with her like some sweet song. 
Whose dying numbers, as they roll. 

Lull to sleep the ra^jtured soul. 
Misfortune, with your ugly mien, 

Never let your presence mar 
The soul whose radiant light, I ween. 

Is envied by the evening star; 
But, Heaven, grant her much below, 

(89) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And, Hope, your every promise bring; 
Let joy from all its fountains flow; 

On every hand let blossoms spring, 
To cheer her path through life, and bless 
The very soul of loveliness. 



'MAMMY'S" DEATH. 



Now, after eighty years have passed. 
That left her old head very hoar. 

Tardy Death has come at last 
And ferried old black mammy o'er. 

Dear old mammy, good old slave, 

She watched my steps from childhood on. 

And till she sunk into the grave, 
My joys and sorrows were her own. 

And though she now has joined the good, 
God's ransomed fold on Zion's hill, 

I'll bet, 'way over Jordon's flood, 
My erring feet she watches still. 

(90) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

How often, since a man, I've thought 
Back o'er a careless time that's ended, 

When each good thing she'd get she brought 
And gave it to the child she tended. 

The hand that gave unto the child, 
Whate'er it had the world did own it; 

A sister's rags her heart beguiled, 

And took her shawl or Sunday bonnet. 

When war came rushing on pell-mell, 
And every darkey left his master. 

To those old mammy loved so well 
War only made her stick the faster. 

And when the news would come and tell 
Of some big battle fought somewhere. 

She would not ask how many fell, 
But, "Were any of our people there?" 

Work? None need order her or ask; 

With busy broom or garden hoe. 
She'd ply her self-appointed task. 

And all the time was on the go. 

But now the broom stands in the corner, 
Old mammy wakes, to work no more, 

(91) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Where God will place a crown upon her, 
'Way over there on Canaan's shore. 

I'll not forget, I will be bound. 

My old black friend no longer here; 

Such worth as hers, wherever found, 
Commands remembrance and a tear. 



LUCAN AND MIRIAM. 

'Tis said, for truth, that once upon a time 

Two lovers dwelt them in a happy clime. 

The two were paired like doves, were just as fond; 

They lived to love and had no thought beyond; 

Prayed to no heaven — their heaven was all below — 

And feared no fate but death's dissevering blow. 

'Twas ever theirs to wander at their will, 

At that calm season when on tower and hill 

The dying day's slow-waning splendor gleams. 

Or when the heavens were rich with stars, whose 

beams, 
The darkness piercing, lent their feeble light. 
But chiefly when the lady of the night 
In radiant splendor walked her heavenly path, 
O'erspread the slumb'rous landscape with a bath 

(92) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

Of dusky light, delighted they to stray, 
And loiter, lovers-like, the hours away. 

Thus dwelt they, happy, till, in evil hour. 
Hard-hearted death sought out their quiet bower, 
And bore the gentle Miriam, pretty dove, 
Forever from the arms of her true-love. 

The story goes that Lucan (such the name 
Her lover bore) ere long to ruin came. 
The world, which erst was full of light and cheer, 
To him was dark now, very dark and drear. 
The hours which, so full of light and gladness. 
Flew by like golden-plumaged birds, in sadness 
Now dragged them on. Each loved, familiar haunt 
Which they would seek when on a lovers'-jaunt. 
The songs they used to sing, the little river 
They so much loved to visit, and seemed never 
To weary gazing on its peaceful flow. 
All, all combined to fill his heart with woe. 
Thus pressed with grief, beneath its weight of pain 
His mind at last, unequal to the strain. 
Gave way, and reason left its post forever. 
And sorrow with it, more to rack him never. 
Vague fancies now possessed his clouded mind. 
He'd hear his lost love calling on the wind; 
Or oft at eve, out in the golden west 
Her form he'd see, in heavenly raiment dressed. 
Poised on some pretty cloud; or when the day 
Flushed in the east he'd turn his face that way. 
And think, above the trees on th' crimson plain, 
He saw his darling coming back again. 



(93) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

One night, though, when the moon superbly shone, 

And fancying that the pure soul that had flown 

In some such world as that, as bright and fair, 

Must be at rest, must wait his coming there. 

He longed to seek his lost; and gazing on 

The moon, where fancy told him she had gone. 

He yielded up his life, one victim more 

To join the host that love had slain before. 

Ah, better in the moon to dwell alone 

Than in this world whence your true-love has flown! 



JEANIE Wr THE SOFT BLUE EEN. 

(In the Brogue oi the Scotch.) 

One morn when spring was at its brightest, 
An' flowers gaily bloomed about, 

An' ilka birdie's hairt was lightest, 
Wi' waefu* step I wandered out, 

As aft I do when troubles bother, 

An' this harsh warld does sair annoy. 

To see gin, haply, I might gather 
Frae bird an' bloom a little joy. 

(94) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

The low-voiced winds were gently blowing, 
I heard the turtle's far-aff croon, 

An' stopped to catch, frae the locust flowing, 
The red-winged blackbird's liquid tune. 

Oh, sad maun be his hairt, an' weary, 
An' fu' o' wae his breast maun be, 

Wha canna join in nature's merry 
Round o' joy an' jollity! 

But sae it was wi' me that morning; 

The clouds at dawn o' day I saw, 
When ower the east the sun was burning, 

A' took them wings an' flew awa; 

But neither sun nor daylight's coming, 
Nor song o' bird nor sound o' bee. 

Nor flowers a' about me blooming. 
Could drive the cares awa' frae me. 

Distracting troubles, mirk and many, 
Strolled wi' me then adoon the green, 

Till 'roond the hill I spied my Jeanie, 
My Jeanie wi' the soft blue een. 

Her gowden tresses, loosely streaming. 
Were burning in the morning's flame, 

(95) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

An' her sma', light feet in the wat grass gleam- 
ing 
As soft as the tread o' an angel came. 

A bonnie tune my luve was humming, 

Wi' flowers her snaw-white apron teemed, 

An' the roses in her cheeks a-blooming 
As sweet as the blush o' a peri seemed. 

But, oh, 'twas when her quick glance met me 

The rosy dawn o' beauty broke. 
An' ilka passion that beset me 

Frae its drowsy slumber woke. 

An' thus I spoke unto my Jeanie: 
"The sweetest flowers I ever saw 

Are in this meadow blooming many, 
But ye're the sweetest o' them a'. 

What brought ye out this hour sae early? 

I wot it may be truly said 
Ye cam' to shame the morning fairly, 

An' mak' ilka flower hang its head." 

I took her pearly hand an' pressed it. 
An' a flower frae her dewy pack, 

(96) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



An' to my bosom I caressed it, 

Then thought just one sweet kiss I'd tak' 

"Na, na," spoke up my timid Jeanie, 
"I canna now sae forward be, 

But wi' this bunch o' flowers bonnie 
I gie my hairt a', a' to thee." 

I thanked her for the flowers dearly; 

My hairt had gane somewhere awa', 
An' I pressed them to my bosom merely, 

An' — wranged her o' a kiss or twa. 

An', oh may heaven's fiercest fury 
Owertak' me in some hour unseen, 

Gin I forget to luve my dearie, 
My Jeanie wi' the soft blue een. 



DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Once when a child I saw a pretty bird 

High in a tree. Upon its burnished wing 

The sunlight flamed; and in me there was stirred 
A wish that I might catch the pretty thing. 

(97) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



As if to satisfy my longing, quick, 

Down fluttering, near my side the songster drew: 
But when I put forth there my hand to pick 

My pretty birdie up, away it flew. 



And later on in life I saw one day 

A hope come gleaming by, and in my breast 
It lodging took, and v/ould not go away. 

But lingered there until I found no rest. 



And there was born that day a bright ideal, 
A purpose; and the future then seemed fair; 

But, oh, a change did come! and what seemed real, 
And in my grasp, lo! vanished in the air. 



Again, still later on in life. Love came. 

So blind is Love that for it beauty glows 
In splendor on a thistle just the same 

As flashes from the petals of a rose. 



And there was one who came before me. Love, 
Foolish Love, did paint her perfect and most fair; 

But time that fades all colors soon did prove 
This bauble also fickle, light as air. 



(98) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Now all about me seems a barren waste, 

A desert with no oasis in view; 
My hopes, my fair ideals, all erased 

From out my heart, which once their presence 
knew. 



AN ODE TO MUSIC. 

I saw thee sitting in a shady nook, 

When on the bosom of the brook 

The morning's sunlight threw 

A dazzling sheen, 

And set the meadow green 

Aflame with sparkling drops of dew. 

The flute in thy fair hands was passing rude. 
Of reed-stock fashioned it seemed to be, 

From the forest solitude. 
The abiding-place of sweetest harmony. 

Rapt with the strains of thine own heaven-born skill. 
You sat and played at will. 
Eolus gave his whisperings soft, 

(99) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



And from the boughs aloft 

The liquid notes came wave on wave 

From the song-bird's happy heart, 

Child of the heaven-born art, 

To whom is given, 

Alone with Poesy, a glimpse of Heaven. 

Fast from thy presence, heavenly Music, fled 
The ugly brood of Passion's baleful train. 

Each hanging in shame its hideous head. 
As never to fret my poor weak self again. 

Again I saw thee, sitting now 

In Evening's dusky tent with harp in hand, 

A crown of russet leaves upon thy brow, 

By Autumn placed. 

And deftly interlaced, 
And again the master skill at thy command. 

And as you touched the chords departing Day 

Did linger in the fading light. 
And in the eastern heavens grey 

Listened on-coming Night. 

The trees 

Did whisper silence to the breeze 

That fanned their boughs that they might hear 

Thy melody, heavenly visitor. 

(100) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

In olden days 

A virgin mother once invoked thy power, 
To chant her joy and praise, 

In that glad hour 
When Heaven adorned her breast 
With that bright Jewel which the world has blessed. 

From Syrian skies angelic forms descended. 

And, listening, rejoiced 
As they attended 

The matchless hymn you voiced. 

Who is it would set bounds 

And mark the limits of thy influence, power divine ? 
By voice or instrument you stir sweet sounds 

To thrill the human heart, or souls that shine 
In glory in the heaven. 

To thee, sweet charmer, it is given 

To tune the voices of the angelic throng 

Within the courts of paradise. 

Where praises to the King arise, 

Or condescend 

To earth and even lend 

Thy influence to prompt the linnet's song. 

Or the lullaby that charms 

To rest the infant in its mother's arms. 



(101) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Thy spirit, Music, would be ill content 
To dwell alone in voice, or reed, or stringed instru- 
ment. 



Thy melody is in the storm-cloud's roar, 
As well as in the breezes soft at close 

Of the strenuous day that little more 
Than lightly mar the leaf's repose. 



I hear it in the rain 

That beats against my window-pane. 

In the booming of the beetles when they come 

As the shades of evening lower, 
In the brown bee's hum 

At the noontide hour; 

In the liquid monotone 

Of the water as it rolls 

O'er the brooklet's pebbly shoals. 

I hear it when I walk alone 

Out in the quiet shadows of the night. 

And contemplate the voiceless heavens. Space, 

Eternity — even these great silences of the universe 
That speak no language to the human race, 

And have no message to rehearse. 
To the poet's finer ear 
Are vocal with thy melody, 

(102) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And there come scyunds, subdued, but yet distinct and 

clear, 
Low murmurings that seem to be 
Music from the very depths of mystery. 

Oh Music, matchless power divine! 

I ask this meed of thee — 
Enter thou this heart of mine, 

Fill it with thy melody. 
Fill it with thy beauty, too, 
Thy beauty and thy melody. 
That if at times I fain would sing. 
Let the song a message bring, 
A message of the good and true. 
That some poor soul, aweary of its pain, 
May listen and take heart again. 



GONE FOREVER. 

No star a ray of light 
Shot athwart the windy night. 
For the hour was dark and there was no sky. 
A distant gun boomed now and then. 
An owl who-whoed, again, and again; 
The wind without and my heart did sigh 
The moment I saw the old year die, 
And the troop of might-have-beens pass by. 

(103) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



HE CARES NA MAIR FOR ME. 

(In the Brogue of the Scotch.) 

I dinna know, nor do I care, 

How soon pale death may ca' forme; 
My laddie dotes on me na mair, 

An' I might as weel lie doon an' dee. 



Yestreen he passed the time away 
Wi' the lass wha has the midnight ee. 

An' I know his hairt has gane astray, 
An' cares na mair, na mair for me. 



Last night I greef u' took my bed. 
An' couldna do a thing but weep. 

An' sigh an' wish that I were dead. 
An' in the deep grave fast asleep. 



However faithless he may prove, 
As he I canna cruel be; 

I'll bear for him my perfect luve. 
As lang as life is spared to me. 



(104) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



LOVE ALL-EMBRACING. 

I well remember as a thoughtful child, 

While lying prone upon the autumn grass, 

A serious brown, touched by the matchless skill 

Of Winter's advance artists of the air, 

I often gazed out on the boundless, blue 

And trackless sea above me at a flock 

Of cranes, slow circling in the distance dim; 

One moment lost to sight, and then the next 

Their silvery wings, still higher circling, down 

Upon my eyes the sun's bright rays reflecting. 

I then would wonder in my boyish way 

Whence sprung their journey and where would it end. 

This lesson then was taught my youthful mind, 

More comforting as nearer draws the end, 

Amid conflicting creeds, than may be found 

Upon the written page, or from the lips 

Could ever fall: Beyond the heavens high 

A love exists as all-embracing as 

Is space itself, and as eternity 

As everlasting. And that love it is 

That guides the feathered wand'rers in their flight 

Unto a place in some fair sunny clime 

Prepared for them, where, when the sun goes down, 

And darkness well-nigh shuts the world from view, 

Low through the gathering twilight they can bend 

(105) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

Their tired wings and settle on the ground, 
Rest and refreshment find, from danger free. 

The same kind power that through the trackless 
fields 
Of blue o'er-arching heaven guides the wild 
Fowl in its flight has also brought the child 
In safety thus far on life's weary road. 
And as the sunlight glancing from their wings 
Revealed, though dimly, to my sight the forms 
Of those strange wand'rers through the upper air, 
So likewise to my longing heart the bright 
And shining wings of faith, far from the earth 
High soaring in those fields, reflect down from 
A more resplendent Sun the light that gives 
Me glimpses of a fairer, brighter land. 

And is it too presumptuous to dare hope 
The same kind hand that upholds in its flight, 
And guides the wild fowl on its toilsome way, 
Will also bring at last my weary feet 
To some bright haven in a better land, 
When twilight falls and ended is the day? 



(106) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



HIS FAITHFUL DOG. 

Tracing the tracks of the riderless horse, 
He searched for the missing man, 

*Long the swamp-path's wild and lonely course 
That through the forest ran. 

The day was dark and the big rain-drops 

Began to patter free, 
The wind through the lofty cypress tops 

Moaned mournfully. 

What sees he now in the dark wildwood 

That makes him stop and stare ? 
He is tracing now some clots of blood 

Scattered here and there. 

He follows the trail through the timber gray, 

Till, aside from yonder log, 
A low growl comes. He looks that way, 

And sees a faithful dog. 



A man was murdered out in the swamps in one of the lower counties. His 
horse having come home with bridle and saddle on, a party rode off in search of 
the man. Following the horse's tracks through the woods the rider came upon 
the dead body of the man and a dog lying beside it. 

(107) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



There was the man, forever mute. 
In the bloody leaves Impressed, 

And lying there was the faithful brute 
Across his master's breast. 

The noble animal all night lay 
By the master he loved so well, 

And bayed the beasts of the forest away, 
A faithful sentinel. 



A FATHER'S LULLABY TO HIS IN- 
VALID CHILD. 

(In the Brogue of the Scotch.) 

Daddie's little bairnie sweet, 
Hae mony thousan' charms, 

Tho' frail o' body, weak an' pale, 
Here faulded in his arms. — 



Why, what is bairnie smilin' at, 
Tho' closed her little een? 

Sees angel bodies hov'ring near 
In heavenly raiment sheen.* 

(108) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Oh, angels, dinna linger lang, 
Your presence seems to say 

The gude, kind Ane wha gied my sweet 
Maun tak' her soon away. 



My tiny flowsr unfaulded first 
In the garden o* the blest, 

They sent the wee thing doon to earth 
To adorn its mither's breast. 



But like the dew that fades awa' 
When morn glintsf ower the green, 

My precious bairnie soon in death 
Maun close her little een. 



Then daddie's days will a' be dark, 

Nae little bairn to keep. 
An' cuddle in his gude, strong arms 

Until she gaes to sleep. 

* bright. tpeeps. 



(109) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



FOR JULIA FRANK McGUIRE. 

On Her Thirteenth Birthday, May 1 0, 1 899. 

In the joyous month of May, 

When flowers were blooming gay, 
And smiling nature wore a gaudy dress, 

Of green and blossoming white. 

And pink and violet bright, 
Our little daughter came our home to bless. 

Fine little girl of ours, 

Born in the month of flowers, 

Oh, may she always just as pure be found 
As the sweet flowers, and be 
From sin and stain as free. — 

With deeds of kindness may her life abound. 

Then, when her days are done. 

Her life's setting sun 
Will go down in a bright and cloudless west, 

And one eternal May, 

With flowers blooming gay 
Will wait her in that bright home of the blest. 



(110) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



MARK. 

He was a dog (four-legged one), 

As good as death e'er seized upon. 

His virtues sparkled just as bright 

As the lamps that hang in the sky at night, 

And in him all were nicely set. 

Like jewels in a coronet. 

Not strong like others of his race, 
He started on life's rugged chase, 
And easy 'twas for the reaper grim 
To follow up and o'ertake him. 

Like a tree that springs from rarest root, 
And a little while bears choicest fruit. 
Till the axman comes with cruel blow, 
And soon prostrate it lieth low; 
Or like the glow at set of sun, 
A short time pleases, then is done, 
So in his youthful prime and pride 
The noble fellow left my side — 
So young in years, mature in worth, 
Too good a creature long for earth. 

In field, when hunting, he was there 
As good as ever scented air, 
Or signalled when the game v/as round, 
Or fetched it in when brought to ground. 

(Ill) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

I little thought, when first I knew, 
Poor Mark, disease had seized on you, 
So soon I'd make your dying bed. 
So soon, so soon, would see you deadt 

They told me, as they stood about, 
You might be mad, — I should look out. 
I would not this suspicion share, 
But nursed you with the tenderest care, 
And rubbed your face, and softly spread 
A pillow for your restless head. 
And watched you through the livelong day, 
And saw your life slow ebb away. 

And as I sat and fanned the flies 
From your noble face and death-dimmed eyes, 
And saw your life-thread there unrolled 
And drawn away like a skein of gold, 
I sighed and said to myself: "Some place 
May there not be Vay out in space 
Where worth like this meets its reward 
And rest succeeds this suffering hard. 
And dogs like Mark, in merry round, 
Enjoy a happier hunting-ground?'' 

Your biped master, blind like you, 
Can not the curtained future view, 
And in his weakness fancies he 
Would rest content if his could be 
A heaven where we cross some streams. 
And fences, hollows, and where gleams 
The autumn sunlight, and where steals 
The chittering quail o'er stubble-fields, 

(112) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And there with you, in endless round, 
Range over such a hunting ground. 
Forgetting sometimes he is dead, 
I hear his bark or rustling tread, 
Or through the ways of fancy steals 
The thought I hear him at my heels. 
But away these fancies soon are driven. 
Like gold-fringed clouds by winds at even, 
And my thoughts again are hovering round 
Where I heaped o'er him a little mound. 



TWILIGHT. 

This is the time when "whip-poor-will" 
Is faintly heard borne from afar, 

The season when the lightning-bug 
A moment flashes like a star. 

Oh, look you there, the western sky 
Is now in crimson beauty drest! 

Too soon dark Night will spread a shroud 
Over the day dead in the west. 

Slow the shades are westward creeping. 
Darker grows the upland green; 

(113) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Out on the hill young lovers, strolling, 
Hand-in-hand, may now be seen. 

While sleep the winds on prairies broad, 
And the red moon routes the eastern gloom, 

How sweet the music from the marsh 
Doth on my raptured spirit come! 

Adieu, fair day, now fading fast! 

A pleasant one you've been to me; 
Oh, may the night that takes your place 

As gentle and as pleasant be! 



WINTER AND SPRING. 

Whither, whilst falls the snow. 
And early birds that came refuse to sing 
Against the biting norland winds that blow, 

Art thou, sweet Spring? 

Why, here am I! 
Yestreen, when gray old Winter tried to squeeze me, 
To cloudlands near the sun I thought I'd fly. 

Lest he might freeze me. 

(114) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



NIECENE. 

I mourn for the fair one gone to sleep, 
Niecene, Niecene. She lieth by 
The willow tree where the light 
winds sigh 

And whisper to me to come and weep. 

To weep for the lady fair in whom 
All womanly virtues shone as bright 
As the stars in heaven that come at 
night 

To look in pity upon her tomb. 

No music is there in the roundelay 
The wild bird sings in yonder tree; 
Out of the world, it seems to me, 

Music with Niecene went away. 

And void is the world of the beauty it 
gave. 
For when in a snow-white gown they 

dressed 
The fair Niecene and laid her to rest 
They buried beauty in the selfsame 
grave. 



(115) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



OLD YEAR DEAD. 



The old year's gone 
And out of sight: 
Death, prowling 'round 
At dead of night, 
Bore him 
Away. 



A snowy shroud 

Death raised o'erhead 
And flapped in the cold 
Night wind, and spread 
It o'er him, 
They say. 

Goodbye, goodbye, 

Goodbye, old year! 
Above your grave 
I'll drop a tear 
And sigh, 
I will, 

To think how soon 
I, too, must go, 

(116) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



And in a bed 

Beneath the snow 
Will lie 
So still. 



He weeps for yon, 

Old year, whose fate. 
Or death come soon 
Or tarry late, 
Must be, 
I know, 

To feel the sting 

Of the chilly breath 
Of the cold, cold world. 
Till long with death, 
Like thee 
I go. 



Who'll weep for me. 

Old year, as I 
Now weep for you, 
When low I lie 
Beneath 
A stone? 



(117) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Ah, one there is 

Will softly tread 
The turf above 

My lowly bed, 
And sigh for me, 
And cry for me, 

Till her last breath 
Is gone. 



MY ANNIE. 

They say the queenly rose 
Of all the flowers many. 

Is the fairest one that blooms — 
Still fairer is my Annie. 

The wanton little brooklet 
That laughs along its way 

As my artless little Annie 
Is not half so gay. 

As the dew-drop on the leaf 
Reflects the morning's beams, 

So from the eyes of Annie 
Heavenly beauty gleams. 

(118) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Now, since my darling of all fair ones 

The paragon doth prove, 
Who can wonder that she's empress 

Of my bosom's world of love? 



LOVE SORROWING. 

Whither, whither, spirit pale, 
Hast thou taken him av/ay? 

Hither, hither, do not fail 
Soon to come for me, I pray. 

What of life is left, for me 

Longer here on earth to dwell, 

Since I can no longer be 
Near the one I loved so well ? 

Gone is light from out my life, 
Night has swallowed up the day; 

Why prolong the bitter strife. 

Heart of mine, with sorrow, pray? 

Sing no more, you birdies there. 
Flitting light from bough to bough, 

Sorrow says I must not care 
Any more for pleasure now, 

(119) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Bloom no more throughout the year, 
Flowers, in the bright sunshine, 

Sorrow says you must not cheer 
Any more this heart of mine. 



IN THE CITY. 



Not in forest dark, primeval, 

Where the hunter, wild and rude, 

Scorning noisy walks and civil, 
Trusts his rifle for his food; 



Not where rugged cliff, depending, 
Darkens with its savage frown 

The scene below, itself defending 
By the terror it sends down; 



Not out on the barren prairie. 
Where the howling coyotes roam. 

And the trav'ler's way is weary. 
Would my spirit scorn a home; 



(120) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



But where soulless Business ever 
Hums her harsh, discordant strain, 

Calm contentment, gracious giver 
Of life's sweets, I court in vain. 

Were I doomed my days to languish 
'Neath the city's cheerless sky. 

What were life but bitter anguish 
And a wish, ah! soon to die! 

Greedy souls who seek to treasure 
Up of wealth a glittering store, 

Find, perhaps, a fancied pleasure 
Mid the struggling city's roar; 

But like rural heavens brighter. 

And like woodland songs more 
sweet, 

So our rustic hearts are lighter, 
And our pleasure's more complete. 

Now, while chill October weather 
Goldens every field and wood, 

I would strool some well-known 
heather. 
Or some forest solitude. 



(121) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



Speed, oh time! I loathe to tarry 
Where at ease I can not rest; 

Haste the day that will me carry 
To my home out in the west. 



THIRTY YEARS AGO. 

I took a trip to Jackson, Jim, 

Back in old Girardeau, 
Where you and I were reckless blades 

Some thirty years ago. 



I sauntered down the sidewalk, Jim, 

And halted at the door 
Of one of those booze dens, you know, 

As I oft had done before. 



The one who handed out the drinks 
Was not the chap we knew, 

Who used to smile when we'd drop in 
'Way back in 'eighty-two. 



(122) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



The web he wove for you and me 
About himself he wound, 

And when I asked, they told me he 
Was planted in the ground. 



And few were left of that old crowd, 
Whose cash he gathered in — 

The rest had glided out and down 
The toboggan-slide of sin. 

But round about the door, old friend, 

I saw a younger brood. 
And lined up at the counter, too, 

Where once their fathers stood. 



Neglected women, worn and wan. 
With broken hearts, yet true. 

Still stand and watch and wait at 
night. 
Just as they used to do. 

And anxious, care-worn mothers pray 
Their wayward boys may be 

Saved from the tempter's snare, as 
ours 
Oft prayed for you and me, 

(123} 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



I stood and watched the people, Jim, 
As they used to in old days. 

Both old and young come trooping in 
From many walks and ways. 



But few remained of our old class, 
The others were all gone, 

Were carted off as rubbish, Jim, 
Many a broken demijohn. 



I thought me of the graveyard, Jim, 
And wandered down that way, 

And stood beside the grave of one 
I loved in the olden day, 



Who used to watch and wait for me 
At the door or at the gate, 

And pray for me while baby slept. 
When I often stayed out late. 



Now we are old, and time will soon 
Foot up our big mistake — 

A few more useless days, and then 
The silver cord will break. 



(124) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



A COUNTRY BURIAL. 

The sun comes up and brings a cheerful day, 
The time is in the summer month of June. 

From the busy world the scene lies quite away, 
Where beauties blend like harp-strings all in tune. 

The country dwelling stands upon a hill, 
A few thin-leaved old locust trees among, 

And through the lowland nigh a sparkling rill 
Gayly runs its winding course along. 

The neighboring folks are gathering to the cot, 
From every way, with pace sedate and slow, 

Good men, goodwives, old folks and young. I wot 
It must be death has laid somebody low. 

Yes, death a cruel wound has dealt that home, 
And fourscore years are ready for the grave; 

At last the welcome call from Heaven has come 
Unto the good, the patient and the brave. 

(125) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

A gentleman is dead, forsooth the pride 

Of the little world wherein his life was led, 

A man but little known 'mong men, but wide 
In a world somewhere beyond his glory spread. 

The older folks, companions of the dead. 

Who long with him had walked in virtue's way. 

Their children, schooled in duty's paths to tread. 
All here had come their last respects to pay. 

Now, slowly moving, see the cortege go, 
Plain people, all, in unaffected guise. 

Bearing the form of him they gladly know 
Rejoices in a home beyond tha skies. 

A woodland pasture lies not far ahead. 

And there, marked by a few enclosures rude. 

O'er which a weeping-willow's branches spread, 
The family graveyard lies in solitude. 

And there the corpse arrives, and all stand 'round 
To look once more upon the peaceful face. 

Expressive of the faith that did abound, 
E'en until life had run its lengthy race. 

With feeble step a gray-haired man appears. 
His face revealing hope as bright as day, 

(126) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And joy, which wets perforce the eyes with tears, 
And with a trembling voice begins to pray. 

His eyes to heaven the holy man doth raise, 
And asks the Lord the dear bereft to take, 

And never let them walk in sinful ways, 
Where woes unnumbered crowd in pleasure's wake. 

For plainly we are taught in that good book, 
'Tis virtue brings us peace, contentment brings. 

And hope, which bids the faithful Christian look 
Beyond this world of failing, fleeting things. 

And next, while all with strict attention hark, 
The reverend father from the Bible reads. 

How many are the paths of sin, and dark. 

How careful each should be wherein he treads. 

His duty done, the old man slow retires. 
The sacred trust unto the grave is given, 

And oh, how many are the heartfelt prayers. 
The dear bereft may meet their lost in Heaven. 

The grave anon is filled, and homeward now 

The sorrowing crowd betake their various ways. 

All talking how the old man lived, and how 
He was beloved, and always met with praise. 

(127) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

But who is it that now her body throws 

Upon the grave? His old goodwife is she; 

These many years she's shared his joys and woes, 
And resting with him now she longs to be. 

glorious scene, where joy and sorrow blend! 

When looked upon what is it starts the tear 
But beauty seen, we longing to ascend 

To Heaven, where all beauty doth appear? 

When death has singled out some haughty lord. 
Whose soul no doubt has seen its brightest days, 

Mark with what show the poor remains are stored, 
And see how men upon him shower praise. 

Alas for him who seeks for fame alone. 

And shapes his acts to gain the rabble's nod! 

Oh, when to all the world will it be known 
It is no flowery road leads up to God? 

The paths of virtue go an uphill way, 

Their promised joys far off we dimly see. 

And onward press; but if we step astray. 
And fall — mark, then, with what facility. 

What boots it if your power be that of kings. 
Your glory such a Caesar well might vie, 

(128) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

And what if praises flow from a thousand springs, 
If after all you can not Christians die? 

You over-wise, who preach and proudly boast 
Of faith as firm as Plymouth Rock, ye famed 

For weighty thought, but for religion most, 
The country cotter can make you ashamed. 



ACCIDENTAL DEATH OF A BOY 
COMPANION. 

The sun came up and brought a lovely day. 

The woods and fields their autumn beauty wore, 

And everything so bright that one would say 
There never was a fairer day before. 

The rustic farmer sang his morning song 
As trod he fieldward to his daily work; 

The current of affairs flowed smooth along, 
And none thought midst the scene that harm could 
lurk. 

(129) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



But evil fates, to ply their deadly arts, 
And work distress and ruin, leap upon 

Us in the brightest moments of our hearts. 
As to wait its prey the serpent seeks the sun. 

So with the bright-hoped youth of whom I write. 
Whose heart in unison with nature beat, 

XJpon this lovely day, and bounded light 
As the hopes that to him danced with fairy feet. 

We each have marked some time a gay, bright flower 
Spring up, rejoicing in its youthful bloom. 

And in one unexpected, evil hour 
Its life yield to the blasting touch of doom. 



But little further he would travel on. 

Thought he, poor boy, and then return once more; 
And so we all thought he would not be gone 

But few weeks yet, perhaps some three or four. 



And oh! he did return — relentless, cruel fate, — 
But not in joy to greet his friends and kin, 

All in a mangled, bleeding, dying state. 

To sleep, too soon, the dread, dark grave within. 



(130) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



THE DYING TRAPPER TO HIS DOG. 

Come here, old doggie, *n* listen what I say; 
Creep close up, for my voice is weak to-day. 
Come right up here and stand beside the bed 
So I can put my hand upon your head 
And talk to Bulger some before I die — 
Cheer up, old doggie, cheer up, don't you cry. 

I hear a voice outdoors a- calling me; 
It's not the voice of man, for now I see 
You do not hear it, else how quick you'd bound 
Away to see who 'tis that's prowling round. 
It's God who calls me now — I hear Him plain. — 

"Take not the rifle from its rack again; 
The shot-pouch and the powder-horn," He says, 
"Must hang just where they are rest of their days." 

So good-bye, for I'm going soon, but you 
Must stay behind, you can not go 'long too. 
I know you want to follow, just the same 
As when we go out on a hunt for game. 
God will take care of Bulger, for you see 
He's a friend to you same as He is to me. 
I'm dying, Bulger, — but don't grieve that way; 
You'll find a place where they will let you stay. 
Of course you'll miss your master, 'n' he'll miss you 
In that strange country he is going to. 

(131) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

But sometime, Bulger, your days, too, will end. 
Then you will track me up, my dear old friend. 
And find me somewhere in another shanty. 
Where timber's thick and where the game is plenty. 



ON A TRANSIT OF VENUS. 

That planet you see, away up there, 
Venus, the bright and beautiful, 

Watched by thousands everywhere, 
Her veil of feathery clouds did pull 

Over her face so very fair, 

And we saw not the transit, scene so rare. 
And our cup of grief was surely full. 

But why should we grieve because denied 
A glance at a single star that beams 

Beyond the moon, on the other side 

Of the mystic, mythical realm of dreams 

While here at home, in their beauty's pride, 

Along our streets, on every side, 
Many and many a Venus gleams? 



(132) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



MOTHER AND CHILD. 

"I wish three weeks would hurry by," 
Thus spoke a mother, sighing, 

While sitting by the little bed 
Where her sick child was lying. 

"For about that time, the doctor says, 
My baby '11 be well again." 

And hope treamed brightly from her 
eyes, 
And she was happy then. 

One, two, three the days passed by. 
Each seeming to get longer. 

As patiently she watched and nursed 
The child that grew no stronger. 

And then there came a heavy shade 

That gathered all about 
The mother's face until it made 

The lamp of hope go out. 

The three weeks passed quite soon, 
but she 

Her babe no more caresses, — 
The little form the good, kind earth 

Close to its bosom presses. 

(133) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 



ROLL THE STONE AWAY. 

"Brother Jones, I often think 
That things are out of joint, 

But where the fault lies I confess 
I'm not prepared to point. 

"All 'roundabout, on lower ground 
Than we can deign to stand, 

Sinners vile outside the church 
Infest our blessed land. 

"In rags and patches, filth and dirt, 

Too foul for us to touch. 
Unless we would pollute and stain 

Society too much. 

"So dead in sin, like Lazarus, 
Whom Christ new vigor gave. 

Some nineteen hundred years ago, 
They stink within the grave. 

"What's to be done I cannot see; 

It doth conclusive seem 
To save the elect, destroy the herd 

Is part of Heaven's scheme." 

(134) 



LITTLE BOOK OF VERSES. 

So spoke good Deacon Smith, and 
Jones 

Replied, and thus he said: 
"These creatures are but hungry souls 

And need but to be fed. 

"Has Christ not said, whoever will 
May free himself from sin. 

Put on new faith, renew his life, 
And Heaven enter in? 

"Though dead in sin, as in the grave 

Was Lazarus of old, 
Touched by His grace, renewed by 
faith, 

They are numbered in the fold. 

"Oh, let the Church but once its proud 

Toploftiness discard, 
Descend and give the helping hand. 

And the task will not be hard. 

"As at the grave the Savior bade 

The dead new life begin, 
So can the Church these sinners raise 

From the depth and death of sin, 

"The stone that lies before the grave 
Is pride of wealth and worth: 

Roll this stone away, and then 
Lazarus will come forth." 

(135) 



INDEX. 

A Grave 1 

The Birth of Christ 2 

The Broken Heai c 4 

A Summer Twilight 6 

Santa Claus 8 

No Distant Day 9 

The Holy Spirit 11 

Stanzas 13 

Lines to a Toad 15 

On the Death of a Little Child 16 

To a Mocking-Bird 17 

Sonnet 19 

A Childhood Idyl 20 

Souter Johnny's Death 22 

One Who Did Not Come 24 

To 28 

An Ode to Death 29 

To My Friend, Dr. H. Hildreth 33 

Sylph 34 

For an Album 36 

Ode to the Month of May 38 



Spring 39 

To a Wood Wren 40 

Eugene Field 42 

Flowers 44 

Lines to a Bird 45 

Dick 46 

Ode to the East Wind 47 

To a Little Chicken Found Out in the Cold 51 

To a Little Child 53 

Pity 54 

Brother Ben 55 

The Mover Girl 57 

On Learning of the Marriage of an Old Sweet- 
heart 59 

The Vagabonds 60 

Margery 64 

In th 3 Garden 65 

A Lullaby Q6 

When I Am Gone 68 

Evening Before the First Frost 73 

Cupid and the Serpent 75 

Walk With Thy Child 77 

Connie's Grave 78 

Little Connie 79 

Old Blaze 81 

Ode to a Honey Bee 83 

Lines 85 

Bunny Dead 86 

An Editor 88 

Lines For an Album 89 

"Mammy's" Death 90 

Lucan and Miriam 92 

Jeannie Wi' the Soft Blue Een 94 



Disappointment 97 

An Ode to Music 99 

Gone Forever 103 

He Cares Na Mair for Me 104 

Love All-Embracing 105 

His Faithful Dog 107 

A Father's Lullaby to His Invalid Child , 108 

For Julia Frank McGuire 110 

Mark Ill 

Twilight 113 

Niecene 115 

Old Year Dead 116 

My Annie 118 

Love Sorrowing 119 

In the City 120 

Thirty Years Ago 122 

A Country Burial 125 

Accidental Death of a Boy Companion 129 

The Dying Trapper to His Dog 131 

A Transit of Venus 132 

Mother and Child 133 

Roll the Stone Away 134 



